


A wish upon a fountain or a falling star

by twofoldAxiom



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Falling From The Sky, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Crossdressing, Explicit Sexual Content, Grief/Mourning, Humanstuck, Implied Bro/Mom - Freeform, Implied John Egbert/Roxy Lalonde, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Masturbation, NaNoWriMo, NaNoWriMo 2017, Oral Sex, Passive-aggression, Power Dynamics, Powerbottom Karkat, Prostitution, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-01-27 14:48:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 51,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12584224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofoldAxiom/pseuds/twofoldAxiom
Summary: Your name is Karkat Vantas and you fell from the sky.You hadn't meant to; you were trying to make a wish by catching a fallen star by the tail. The star turned out to be stronger than you. Now, on Earth, alone and unsure of yourself, what can you do except find someone who might believe? And what do you do when you yourself start to question?(NaNoWriMo 2017 entry, finished January 28, 2018)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hoo boy, starting a new thing for this year's NaNo and it's actually starting rougher than last year's. I'm aiming for 2000 words a day this time, so wish me luck!
> 
> This is definitely going to be DaveKat, and will touch on some dark stuff here and there probably, so I'll try to warn per chapter if I can.

Your name is Karkat Vantas and this is the craziest idea you’ve ever had.

You can’t fly, so this is doubly dangerous for you, but even in a land of myths and stories things can’t be magically easy for everyone, least of all you. You’re the only one born in Skaia without the ability to fly, and it’s been an endless source of grief for as long as you’ve been alive. You can’t go where you need to without help, for the most part, or without clinging to the buildings and gliding with a sheet wrapped around some sticks.

So you’re desperate, and it shows in how much you hate yourself for coming up with this: You’re going to catch a falling star as it passes between Skaia and the human world, and you’re going to make a wish.

Wishes work differently here in Skaia, as do stars. You live so close to them that you can see exactly which ones fall loose from their moorings and plummet into the never-ending dark below. Nobody knows what happens to fallen stars unless someone catches them to make a wish, and very, very few people make wishes here.

The reasons vary, and most of them don’t comfort you where you are. Less so knowing most of those people can fly.

You feel the wind trying to pull _you_ away from where you cling to the spire you’ve chosen, climbing close to a loosened star. All you have to do is wait for it to fall and catch it by the tail, and you’ll have your wish. Every errant wriggle of the star coming loose in the wind has you on your metaphorical toes.

You think about what this will change. About your friends. About what you can’t do, what you’ve always failed at even when you _can_ do something. You think of Nepeta and Kanaya drafting up your glider, Terezi and Sollux building it for you as a surprise, and you’re grateful for that, but you’ve never been able to give them something back for it. If you don’t need the glider, though, you can find _something_.

You almost miss it in your rumination, when you finally reach the top of the spire.

The star starts to spark and fizzle, and you look up when you see it, eyes wide and the rest of you scrambling to get ready with thick gloves and a safety cord around your waist. You mutter to yourself as the sparking intensifies, a litany of “come on, come on, come on” as you tighten the cord and pray it holds.

And the star comes loose, and you lunge for it. Somehow you feel your fingers tighten around the very tip of its tail, halfway across your palm, so close to being lost you could scream. You let go of the spire and let the cord hold your weight as you grip the tail with your other hand, sparks burning your face and hair. It stinks of some indescribable fire, all heat and no ash, nothing you’ve ever had so close before.

But you’ve got it, you’ve got the star; you would celebrate if that didn’t mean you couldn’t hold onto it. You start pulling it closer, the heat so bad it feels like you’re dying but you keep going, hand over hand as the bright, burning core keeps trying to pull free and fall.

This is your chance. “I wish-”

You lose that chance as fast as you caught it when you hear a rip, and feel the cord around your waist come loose. It takes you half a second to realize the star burned through the cord and you’re falling with it.

It takes you another half a second to realize how you feel.

You’re falling _._

_You’re falling._

“No!” You try to grab for the spire but it’s far behind you already. The star burns in your hands and because you don’t know what else to do, you hold on. Skaia’s clouds whip past you, thousands, millions of them, dark caves and bright oceans and towers of glass. The star hurtles right into one of those clouds and you feel the veil rip through.

The wind takes on a harsher bite and the star begins to flicker. You see the ground coming up fast and all you can think is, you have to wish _now_.

“I wish-”

_Thud._

~!~

When you come to, it’s dark, and you ache all over. You hear distant engines in and out of your notice, and when you squint your eyes open, you see a black, starless sky bordered by leafless trees.

Your fingers are still clutching the star, dead now that it’s fallen. Is this where all falling stars go? You’re surprised you’re alive with how much everything hurts. You’re not surprised that the star is little more than a pale, warm stone now that it’s on the ground. You hold it up to the light and see flashes and striations in its surface, but no more magic. Sighing, you pocket it and stand.

The world tilts sideways for a moment and you have to lean against one of the trees, groaning as the pain _really_ hits you. You must be bruised all over. It’s a miracle nothing feels broken.

Maybe…

Maybe you made your wish, though you couldn’t stop yourself from the impact. The star is dead in your hand, but who’s to say it wasn’t bright and burning when you wished?

You clutch it tight and close your eyes. You can imagine it, all the places where your body is bruised and battered and even scraped up more than you want to imagine. Dirt and dead leaves cling to your hair and clothes, and you brush them off with a little shake before you look up. The sky is still starless and strange, but it’s the sky.

You reach a hand up and jump. For a breathless second you think you’re going to fly.

But only for a second. You feel the grip of gravity heavy in your bones the next. “Fuck.” You say, quietly, and then louder, kicking over a pile of leaves, “Fuck!”

It dawns on you that you’re alone, and far from home, and you can’t fly. You grip the star a little tighter, the last remnant you have of Skaia, even as you want to throw it as far from you as possible for bringing you here. It’s your own damn fault, and the star is dead anyway, so throwing it wouldn’t even give you the satisfaction of _maybe_ hurting it. You wipe your sleeve roughly across your face so you don’t have to face the reality of crying. You’re not a _child._

You look around. Nobody here, though you can still hear the distant come and go of some kind of vehicle. If you’re lucky, you’ve ended up somewhere you can come back from. If you’re not, well, you’re not thinking about that yet. There’s lights interspersed behind the trees, and you walk in that direction and hope for the best.

What you get is pretty far from the best, because the best would of course be, this is a bad dream and you never went star hunting in the first place. What you get is loud and people. So many people. You’re at an iron-wrought fence and looking through shows you flat, stony ground, covered in people. Nobody flies, just walks along, or rides in the shining, metal things you realize the engine sounds were coming from.

It hits you _exactly_ where you are, much like landing on the ground did.

“Fuck.” You mutter again. “This is _Earth._ ”

 _Fuck_ probably doesn’t cover it. You’ve managed to catch a star, and you’ve landed in the one place where you _know_ a fallen star is completely fucking useless. It’s just a rock here! A piece of shiny _trash_ , considering magic’s been dead on Earth as far as you know for the longest time. You heard horror stories of the place.

Now you’re living one.

~!~

You turn away from the street and walk back into what you’re pretty sure is a public park, find a bench, and sit down with your head in your hands. You’re not entirely sure how long it is you sit there before you can bring yourself to think about your situation again.

It’s pretty hard not to give into the urge to start bashing your head against the concrete. Somehow you manage and look up instead, in particular because you realize someone’s been standing over you this entire time.

“What,” You grumble, “The fuck do you want?”

You probably shouldn’t be hostile to the first person you speak to on Earth, but you’re not feeling particularly hospitable in your misery. He looks only slightly surprised by a greeting like that, and you take the time to look him over a little closer while they speak. Clothes worn out but well kept, and you’re not sure how old he is, but he smiles at you in a way you might remember someone smiling at an injured bird. Whether because they’re going to eat the bird or help it doesn’t quite fit into your memory. Sleeves and collar buttoned all the way up. A tooth missing.

He doesn’t look anything like anyone from back home. It serves to underline exactly how far from home you are.

“You’re new here, huh?” He says. He sits down beside you and stretches out in the available space left on the bench, very slightly too close to you. “You’ve got that kind of look.”

You lean away. “What kind of look?”

“You run away from home?” He dodges the question, but in such a way that you stop and listen. “You look like you regret whatever brought you here. You’re young, and don’t look too shabby, except you’ve been rolling around in dirt. Did you run?”

“No.” You mutter, and reach into your pocket for the star. He shifts slightly away from you as you do so, though you don’t draw your hand out. You look up and sigh. “I fell from Skaia.”

“‘Course.” He says. He pauses, and then, “So why are you here?”

Something in you snaps, and you start blubbering like you told yourself you wouldn’t.

“I tried to catch a star.” You say, choking on the words. “Stupid fucking thing took me with it, I fell, and I can’t fly; and even if I could it was _fast_ , there was no way I could’ve stopped falling. I tried to wish that I could fly, and maybe I could go back with that, but I hit the _fucking_ ground here and the _fucking_ star is dead, so now I’m _stuck_ ; and unless you can somehow fucking tell me that there’s some strong enough magic between here and Skaia to get me back home, I… I…”

You choke harder, like you’ve swallowed a hot coal. Your strange new friend looks thoughtfully on while you compose yourself. You’re not sure when you started thinking of him as anything approaching a _friend._

“Don’t know about magic.” He says, leaning back in his seat again. He doesn’t look like he’s got a care in the world, and it makes you want to punch him in the face. “I think I know a thing or two about this place that could help you out, though.”

You sniffle, and want to punch _yourself_ for it. You don’t actually have any hope when you speak next. “Like what?”

He shrugs. “Nothing that’ll get you out, let’s be clear, but maybe it’ll make sticking around more bearable and you can figure out how to get out on your own. Do you still want to hear it?”

You look him over again. That same smile, ambiguously hungry, but not exactly malevolent, and he’s the first person you’ve met here on Earth anyway. Chances are this is going to bite you in the ass. Chances are you don’t have many other options, at least not yet, and whatever he’s offering might give you a few.

You wipe your face of stray tears and try to sound, at least to yourself, like you aren’t pushing back desperation in the back of your mind. “Fine.” You say. “Let’s hear it.”


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look out, there's some mentions/implications (very obvious ones) of prostitution in this chapter.

Once upon a time, there was born a Skaian boy who couldn’t fly. That was maybe nineteen years ago by now, maybe longer.

Once upon a time, a young man fell from the sky and landed in a park in the middle of September. He met a kindly stranger that told him he didn’t know a way back home, but that he could make life bearable in this place called Earth. That was one month ago.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and once upon a time, the stone in your pocket was a shooting star.

You’ve told yourself this story for as long as you’ve been here, tell yourself again every time you wake up and hope against hope that it isn’t true. You still wake up expecting to see a white ceiling and your brother telling you to wake up, and instead, today it’s a yellowy-gray ceiling and a body you don’t recognize asleep beside you.

It’s been a long month.

You look at your latest customer and frown, wondering if it would be worth it to filch anything off him before you leave. He sleeps like there’s a knife under the pillow, and for all you know there might be, so you stretch and yawn and slide out of the bed to look for your clothes.

Once upon a time you were sure how this story went, up to a point, and how it would end. It’s only been a month, you remind yourself, and yet every time you wake up, Skaia and your life before this feels more and more like a distant dream.

“Already awake?” You don’t turn your head; there’s only one other person in here with you, after all. You weren’t as quiet as you’d hoped, apparently. He chuckles to himself, and you hear the bed creak. “Surprised. Usually I keep ‘em knocked out until _I_ leave. Say, what’s the policy on breakfast after a fee like that?”

“No complimentary breakfast.” You say, pulling up your shorts. “But there’s a McDonald’s down the street if you want anything. Also, it’s fucking noon.”

You don’t actually want to go as quickly as you’re going. You’d like to lie in bed for longer, and maybe take a hot shower afterwards; everything is sore, and you’ll probably have bruises in a few hours, but you can bet your thoroughly fucked ass that this motel doesn’t have hot water anyway, and customers like the big guy behind you pay well but not well enough to justify going at it again so soon, and before you’ve had coffee.

You find your shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, shake it to make sure nothing really horrible has happened to it, and put it on. You’re fastidious enough that you wiped down before falling asleep last night, so you won’t have to worry about any stray stains, though the smell will probably linger until you get in the bath and maybe gargle some mouthwash.

Your jacket is over the back of a chair. Past you is good for _something_ , you think, as you pull it on against the chill. Boots come on next, you didn’t take off your socks for some reason, but that probably kept your feet from getting too chilly.

“I’m going now.” You say, as you finish lacing your boots and limp your way to the door. You hear whistling as you close it behind you.

It’s brisk outside, but not unbearable. You breathe out.

~!~

“ _Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older, then we wouldn’t have to wait so long…_ ”

The music plays distorted through the speakers in the Seven-Eleven you’ve walked into. It’s taken you a week to get to this town from the last one in three rides and twice as many sucked dicks. You’re still no closer to finding what you need than you were when you started.

You’ve gotten paler in your time here, too. You don’t know if it’s from the lack of sunlight in this place or you’re fading out like your memories. Everyone hears about what happens when a Skaian ends up on Earth but nobody actually knows if it’s true and it’s so rare as to be urban legend, that Skaians who fall to Earth turn pale and gray and then disappear, like statues of ash.

You pay for a cup of coffee and a sandwich and sit next to the glass wall that serves as a window, watching the clouds gather outside and the rain start misting down.

Cold, wet, and silvery. It’s days like this that the star in your pocket feels _warm_ , like it might have some spark left in it. If you could find a way to ignite it and go home… But you haven’t found anything strong enough to ignite it yet, and you doubt you will. You don’t even know if doing so will give you the wish you need You’ve wrapped it in wire and put it on a chain, and now you take it out of your pocket and let it hang loosely from your fingers.

It’s smooth and pale between the bands of steel you’ve wrapped it in, like a drop of clouded glass, but heavier than it has any right to be for something so small. It’s hard to believe something only as big as the first joint of your thumb could drag you so far from home. Somewhere in the striated reflections and refractions in the vitreous little thing, you see the five-pointed core, dark as the first night sky you’d seen from Earth.

You put it back in your pocket, thumbing over the ridges of wire and the smoothness of the star itself. It pulses warmly under your touch, but nowhere near hot enough for a wish. It’s hardly even the temperature of your coffee.

Once upon a time, a star fell, and with it fell you. You spent a couple weeks learning how to exist on Earth with the help of a stranger, always with the thought in the back of your mind that maybe someone back home will try to find you.

So far you haven’t had much luck. They probably think you died when you fell, the flightless, foolish boy who didn’t know when to quit.

~!~

The rest of the afternoon isn’t so exciting as last night. Once the rain stops, you spend some time exploring the town, aimless in your wandering. You stop by street stalls and antique shops, take in the sights. It’s a small town, and the most notable thing is that it’s on the edge of the sea, with a lighthouse jutting up over the pier. It’s large and old, grey stone stained by sea spray. It reminds you a lot of the spires back home, actually, though without the orb at the very top.

You spend some time walking around it in a circle, just looking up at the lantern room and imagining it’s actually one of the towers that you’d climbed, or maybe even the tower you’d lived in. The pang of homesickness that hits you almost has you swaying, though you catch yourself against the wall and look up.

Seagulls. Clouds. But empty clouds, with no visions or portals to offer. It stings in a way you don’t expect it to.

You hurry away, and hey, you have money leftover from last night, more than enough to get you to the next town, more than enough for a couple evenings spent trying to find an increasingly slim chance of anyone who understands magic the way you do. There has to be something here for you to do so you don’t go insane when you look up at the night sky, and you don’t want to spend more time in the shitty motel you’ve picked out than truly necessary.

This is why you push your way into a used book store and start browsing. Everything here is new to you, and it’s probably one of the few good things you’ve had since falling that you get to experience an entirely new world’s worth of stories.

Some of them are achingly familiar, though, and you latch onto them like a lifeline, because apparently you’re predictable. That being the romance section. It seems that people on Earth love almost the same way as people on Skaia. You make a selection of two well-worn copies of titles you don’t care to really look at, and put them on the counter. The paper is feathery at the edges; maybe you’ll even reread these ones.

Though when you exit with your purchase, it’s raining again. You curse to yourself and hide the books under your jacket, and start walking as close to the walls and under as many awnings as you can. You’re still not sure where you’re going to read these books, and the goddamn lighthouse is within view of the bookstore, enough to make your throat close up whenever you look at it.

You duck into some kind of pub and shake water out of your hair, checking the books under your jacket; safe, thankfully, so you find a seat and tuck yourself into it, by the window for the light because for some reason pub lighting sucks. Besides the lighting, though, it’s a nice enough place to read, with plush seats near the front window and red brick walls. It’s got a textured quality to it that you want to sink into, is the best way you can put it.

It’s fifteen minutes in that you realize someone’s watching you, and you look up. Someone is sitting across from you in the opposite chair, some douchebag wearing shades even in the gloomy lighting exacerbated by the rain outside. He’s got a laptop on his knees and shockingly white hair, and you pause when you notice that because nobody you’ve seen so far in this miserable plane has had hair like that.

You think of the stories of Skaians lost on Earth and dare to hope, especially when after a solid minute of looking at him, he hasn’t moved, like he might be waiting for you.

You cough into your hand and he blows hair off his shades. “Was starting to wonder if you’d noticed me or you were looking through me.” He says. You blink, and frown, but he waves it off with one hand like someone waving off a cobweb or a fly. “Name’s Dave Strider, director, photographer, novelist, comic artist, bluh bluh bluh; hey, have you heard of any of that? No? Good, because I need to ask you a very important question.”

You roll your eyes, though you keep watching him as much as you can. “Is the question ‘who is this douchebag in my seat’ by any chance, because I can move seats without knowing who you are.”

“No no no no, that’s not what I was going to ask, you can sit right there.” You’re only getting more weirded out by the minute. He presses his lips together as you settle again and only when you do does he speak again. “I need you to model a few things for me, is that alright?”

“What?” Your confusion probably came off as more hostile than you meant it to, because he leans back and sighs.

“How much?” He asks.

You stare. “Now you’re being presumptuous. I didn’t even say if I’d do it or not.” Before he can run his mouth off again you butt in. “I’ve never done any kind of modeling before but I get paid by the hour, including if you fall asleep while I’m working with you.”

You expect him to balk at that but he nods along and actually pulls out a fucking checkbook. “Sweet, okay, I just. Really need this done, and you’re honestly perfect for the part. I don’t know if you have any modeling experience or whatever and this is probably fucking weird, but yes, okay.”

“I also want you to answer a few questions of mine.” You say, and he stops trying to find a pen to look at you over his shades. You gulp. His eyes are as red as yours. Maybe a little darker, but unmistakably, impossibly red.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit late, sorry about that.

“I don’t do on the spot interviews.” He says. His pen is still poised over the checkbook, but you shake your head.

“Not an interview, just one question, and I’ll give you a price afterwards.” You huff softly, quietly, as he deliberates on it for a moment, but before he can finish a nod, you continue. “And I’ll need the money in cash. I can’t take checks.”

He actually looks surprised for a second, muttering “what the fuck” under his breath, looking you up and down again. “Do you just not take much, or are you running from something?”

“Neither.” You shake your head. “I just shouldn’t be here.”

You let that hang in the air for a moment, watch what parts of his face aren’t covered by his oversized sunglasses shift from confusion to something like recognition. It makes you hopeful, but the question still sticks in the back of your throat.

He shrugs and puts away the checkbook, then leans forward with his elbows on his knees, hands folded into each other. “Alright, whatever. I’ve done weirder shit.” He looks at you, or at least you think he’s looking at you because he raises his head, and does something like half a nod. “Ask away.”

You take a deep breath and let it out slowly. The star hangs heavy around your neck.

“Did you fall, too?”

You watch him for a sign, any sign, that he understands what you mean. You would hold your breath if you didn’t feel like he was analyzing your every move as much as you were doing it to him, still as he is where he’s sitting and where you can’t see his eyes behind his _goddamn_ shades. You’re getting a little uncomfortable with the silence, actually, fidgeting in your seat.

He leans back at last, putting one ankle up on his knee and crossing his arms. “You’re going to have to be more precise, what kind of falling are you talking about? Especially with that ‘too’ in there, you know, since it sounds like you’re talking about something _real_ specific. Out of my agent’s favor, maybe, though if you don’t take checks I feel like that’s not what you’re talking about.”

He doesn’t seem to be fucking with you, though again, it’s hard to tell with his fucking shades on. You purse your lips and straighten up a little, the book you’d bought tucked against your hip in the chair so you can gesture with your hands.

“ _Literally_ falling. As in from the up there.” You point up and he actually tilts his head up to follow the motion for half a second. His face is unreadable and maybe your annoyance bleeds into your voice a little. “Maybe not exactly that far, because I’m still alive, but still in a generally downwards direction from-”

“Heaven?” He asks, flatly. You sputter but his face betrays nothing. “Don’t think I’ve heard that one in a while.”

“No, I mean- what the fuck?” You’re stumbling now, your hands tossed up in frustration. “I don’t mean this as a pickup line, I mean from Skaia.”

“You mean like some kind of E.T bullfuckery or some shit like that.” He actually chuckles, holding up a hand. “Yeah, nah, I get you; I’m God’s gift to the overall enrichment of culture and humanity as a whole alright but I don’t think I’ve got any feathers under this suit so you’ll have to take that figuratively.”

You deflate like he stabbed you and look down, or maybe worse because you’ve been stabbed before and it didn’t hurt as much as this. You want to scream.

“Tell me more, though.”

You look back up at him. His lips are still somehow maddeningly expressionless, but he speaks again. “About whatever that is. Sky-opolis or something. I want to hear about it.”

“I. What?” You blink and shake yourself a little. “Skaia. It’s called Skaia.”

“Yeah, Skaia.” He says it slightly off, and you’re not sure if he’s mocking you or it’s his accent; it’s hard to tell with these people sometimes, you’ve told maybe three other people about Skaia in your stay here and never for very long.

You shake your head.

“Where do you want your photoshoot?” You ask.

He stays still for a moment and then shrugs and rolls with it, and you’re not sure if you’re going to get the chance to later, but it at least gives you the time you need to think over whether or not you want to tell him. Those three other times were with people who spent longer with you than a one-night stand, and you’re not naive enough to think he’ll believe a word you say after a reception like that.

You at least want a chance to tell someone, though, and maybe, just maybe, he only forgot.

~!~

He’s renting out some space in the fucking lighthouse, apparently. You worked out a price and a rough timeframe to work within with him at the pub, and then you asked him where he was staying and where the shoot would be and he led you here. You look up at it in the fading light of sundown and think god _damn._

The actual lighthouse keeper doesn’t mind the extra money as long as these “eccentric inlanders” pay rent, apparently. Dave’s booked the place for… actually, he isn’t sure, either. He plans on working with you on this photoset for the course of at least a couple weeks, though, because conditions and details have to be _just_ right.

He at least invites you to dinner, and when you decline, stuffs some crumpled fifties in your hands and says that he’s paying you to eat with him, too. You raise an eyebrow at that.

“Don’t think too much of it.” He says. “I wanted to ask you more about that other stuff. I feel like there’s a story in that. Skycadia, Heaven, what was it?”

“Skaia.” You frown. “Get the fucking name right, you didn’t pay me to let you insult my fucking memory _or_ be an inconvenience with whatever early-onset degenerative memory you’ve got.”

“I’m hurt.” He says, without seeming actually hurt by that. “You have no sense of customer service. But seriously, that pub you were sitting in, you didn’t even try the food and they have _great_ currydogs.”

You’re still a little hesitant- maybe more than a little, even- but you recognize that as just not wanting to really face what you know you have to, not wanting to see blank incomprehension in his face when you tell him more about home.

You tell yourself he won’t believe you, so you’re going to tell the story so you can hear it for yourself, and maybe it won’t sound crazier than it did the last time you told it.

“Fine.” Is all you say for the moment, though, and he puts your hand over his arm like you’re a date to a fancy party in a floor-length gown, which is a weird image for you to think of but is the one that comes to mind anyway.

As it turns out, he’s right about the currydogs, which is kind of frustrating to you when you want to eat slowly and put it off as long as possible. It’s fucking delicious and you practically scrape your plate clean, and he rests his mouth on his knuckles as he watches you eat.

“Jegus, were you starving before I found you? Don’t stop on my account, I can order you another plate. Maybe some potatoes, too. Do you like potatoes? Nevermind, everyone likes potatoes and if you don’t, I’ll just eat them.” He flags down the waiter and Hell, if he’s going to pay for everything, you could definitely eat some more and maybe bag up the rest to eat later. You have this horrible, nagging feeling in the back of your mind that you’re getting a lot more out of this than he is, but you don’t pipe up to question it just yet.

You get halfway through the second plate before you finally decide you’re done, and he whistles as he inspects the carnage while you sip lukewarm tea. You snort, and with spicy food warming your entire body, even laugh a little.

“You look some kind of horrified by this.” You wipe your mouth with the napkin as he finishes his own food and then all that’s left to do is wait for him to get dessert and you to get another, more interesting drink. He runs a hand through his hair, though he doesn’t pick at the food you’ve left on your second plate like you expect him to. You kind of want to nibble at it while waiting.

“So you’re going to tell me about it now, right?” He says, when the waiter comes back with a pumpkin tart for him and a mug of hot chocolate for you. He smears the cream around the top of the tart with his fork. “What’s it like to fall from Heaven?”

You hiss through your teeth as you burn yourself on the chocolate, and glare at him through the steam. “It’s _Skaia_.” You mutter. “I’m starting to think you’re doing that on purpose.”

“Whatever gave you that impression.” He shrugs and pops some tart into his mouth, chews thoughtfully, and then gestures with the fork. “But I want to know what it was like there. And more importantly, why a hooker from literal Heaven is fucking us lucky Earthlings. Got bored of the angels? I don’t imagine they’d be very good in bed.”

You sigh and blow across your chocolate again. A beat or two passes in silence, though now you know his eyes are on you because he’s ignoring his food. “ _Skaia_ , and I’m just going to ignore you whenever you don’t call it that, was- is- an inbetween. It’s like where everywhere else gets crossed over and overlaps and there’s a way to get to everywhere else from there.”

“Nothing I haven’t heard of before.” He mutters, as if you weren’t there. You push down the stray flutter of hope that you get from that; it doesn’t mean anything, not yet. You’re only giving him the tourist view with that. You continue.

“It wasn’t really anything I could fully appreciate. It was great to look at if I could get to a high enough vantage point, but I rarely ever did. There were never enough bridges and I had to get around with a fucking glider or plummet to my doom, or sometimes I’d have a friend help me-” You don’t say “carry”, he doesn’t need to know that.- “and there were spires everywhere. It was… it was small? But only because the places where things overlap tend to be smaller than the actual things. There were more stars over there, even if they kept falling, and they were closer if you knew where to look-”

“What.” He stops you. “What the fuck. Stars? Are you serious?”

You bristle. “It’s how I got here.”

“That’s not how stars work.” He sounds baffled and it’d be funny if it wasn’t starting to annoy you. “And that doesn’t make any sense. How does a star get you from _there_ to _here_ , what are you talking about?”

“ _If you’d let me finish_ , maybe you’d know.” You narrow your eyes at him. He smooths back his hair and mutters to himself, but nods to let you continue. “They were closer there. They were brighter, too, and if one fell, you could catch it and make a wish. Sometimes a wish would come true, if you could hold onto the star you caught. Most of them try to get into the clouds.”

“The clouds.” He says, but nothing more. You nod.

“The clouds are where the edges of other worlds don’t quite meet up to make Skaia. So I fell into one when I caught a star, and that cloud was here. Hurt like a bitch, too.” You look down at your drink. “That was a month ago. I don’t think I can talk about this more unless you’re not going to make fun of me.”

He opens his mouth and closes it again, probably considering, before he nods and flags down the waiter again for the bill.

“I’ll ask about more later, I guess.” He says, handing a credit card to the waiter and checking the time on the shitty plastic, cat-themed watch on his wrist. He yawns. “And I guess I’ll see you at about six-thirty am tomorrow. Wear something breezy.”

He gets up from his seat and you watch him go. That night, when you count out the money he’s given you already and stuff it into your luggage, you find yourself sitting against the door and looking out the window at the lighthouse, watching the beam strike out against the dark.


	4. Chapter 3

Surprisingly, you wake up while it’s still dark. You think maybe you should go back to sleep for a minute, or an hour, wrapped in the invitingly warm blankets. You drag yourself out anyway, though, and splash some cold water on your face before drying off on yesterday’s shirt.

Outside is even colder than the day before, though at least it’s not raining. There are _some_ stars visible in this town, distant and dim but present all the same. The lighthouse beam blurs them out of view as it passes over your head, reminding you why you’re waking up at this fucking hour anyway.

You trudge up to the lighthouse keeper’s door and knock twice, though only because the door swings open on the third. Looking up at the keeper makes you a little uncomfortable with how close to eye level you are with his nose hairs, so it’s a good thing he takes one look at you and turns around.

“Strider!” He _bellows_ , and you wonder if anyone else is awake at this hour and kind of hope _not_ , if they’d have to hear that. But the keeper steps out of the way for you so you can tentatively walk in, ducking under his arm and looking around in the dim, circular first floor of the lighthouse.

It’s only the first couple floors that are actually livable, judging from what it looks like outside, and it shows. Every available inch of space is packed with things spaced as closely and efficiently as possible. It’s a little hard to imagine someone like Dave choosing this over a more comfortable inn or staying with a relative, but there he is anyway, sitting on the edge of a wide shelf mostly packed with dark, hardbound books.

“Earlier than I expected, you always this punctual?” He pushes himself off the shelf and readjusts his shades as he walks up to you. You’re surprised he doesn’t trip over the heavy-looking rope rug underfoot. “I’ve got my stuff ready upstairs, but you kind of caught me halfway through breakfast and snooping around Uncle Ahab’s here, and I already bought you dinner yesterday so I hope you’re not here to squeeze an extra meal out of me.”

“I ate before I showed up and was honestly expecting to take a nap in an armchair while you got your beauty sleep, it’s not my fault we both ended up with some kind of insomnia.” You look him up and down, fully aware that your own eyes are uncovered and he can probably see you do it even with the poor lighting in here. “You plan to do the shoot in your pajamas?”

“Not any more than I plan to let you do it in your work clothes. Or at least I assume you don’t put on a little red dress when you’re working the street around here.” You sputter something indignant and he raises an eyebrow. “I wasn’t expecting that to be accurate, but I probably should have guessed. You’re too pretty for the average hitchhiking backpacker.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but for once in your life you don’t make it more difficult than it has to be, and instead gesture towards the stairs. “What’s the theme of this shoot, anyway?”

“Something a artsier than my usual.” He says, already walking to the stairs.

You follow, trying to stay at his side, but the stairs are narrow and your legs are short. “And your usual is?”

“You know those cursed images floating around online?”

You blink and he pauses in his stride to look over his shoulder at you. The confusion shows on your face, probably, because he gestures for you to speak.

“I know a few.” You say, thinking of photos that whisper secrets and paintings that depict the artist’s future death. “But I didn’t think anyone would purposely make that kind of thing.”

You somehow get the feeling that’s not what he’s talking about when he turns back around and keeps walking. “Yeah, I do something like that. Don’t know why it gets as much of a reception as it does, but as long as I’m getting paid for prints and galleries.”

When the stairs stop and the next floor begins, it’s just a single room up here. Or, it was, before it was divided into sections with wooden frames and thin, plywood walls that were obviously added later on. Dave disappears behind one of those walls for a minute and leaves you looking around at the contrast between whitewashed plywood and unpainted granite before he comes back with a thermos in one hand and a camera around his neck.

He hands you the thermos and gestures with a flick of the head towards the _other_ set of stairs, a spiral staircase in the center of the room that winds up into the lighthouse tower proper. “Drink up; tastes like shit but it’ll make the walk more bearable.”

“What?” You look down at the warm thermos you’re holding and uncap it, taking a sniff. He’s right, the tea smells like a burnt shoe and you imagine it tastes much the same. Still, the lighthouse is dizzyingly tall; you don’t imagine he wants you looking like you do after a rough customer when you get to the top.

You wrinkle your nose, take a gulp, and gag heavily. You almost throw up, especially since it stays on your tongue and you can barely force yourself to swallow. You blink back tears and lean on one of the whitewashed walls as he snorts and takes a sip like it doesn’t taste like a punch in the teeth.

“Come on, the sun will be up in a minute.” He says, checking his watch again.

“What the Hell did you just poison me with?” You wheeze. It makes you think of Terezi’s cooking, from before she went blind. The tightness in your throat takes on a different, more bitter tang.

(You wonder if she thinks you’re dead.)

He doesn’t answer, he’s already hurrying up the stairs. You follow behind him and, wow, these are a lot of stairs, narrow and winding and after a while you kind of forget where you are with the lack of windows. You feel like you’ve been walking forever and you wonder if he’s just been traipsing up and down these fucking stairs his entire stay because your legs are starting to burn.

You think you’ve entered some kind of neverending loop when finally, finally, you see light at the very top. He disappears from view again for a few seconds before you catch up with him and look around.

The lantern room is definitely smaller than you expected, glass-panelled on all sides so as not to obstruct the lighthouse beam at night. Dave was right, the sun’s coming up now, turning the distant horizon pale greenish-blue, like a shallow, sandy pool.

You almost remember something like it, like remembering a dream. The chain the star hangs from feels rough and heavy against the back of your neck.

You don’t get much time to examine the feeling before the light actually goes out; the keeper downstairs must have finally shut it off. Dave shoves a bundle of something into your hands.

“That’s our cue, get dressed quickly and I’ll set up the camera.” He says, turning around and pulling a tripod out of a bag he’d apparently left up here sometime ago. You look down at the bundle of clothes in your hands and wonder if these pictures will lament where you’ve come from, or if Dave has something else in mind. You honestly have no fucking clue.

At any rate, he’s going to finish setting up before you do if you keep thinking about it, so you strip down quickly and put on what he’s given you. It amounts to mostly oversized, breezy swathes of fabric that hang awkwardly off of you until you adjust some ties here and there, and even then you feel like you’re wearing a curtain. The dark, airy stuff is partially sheer, and you’re more than a little uncomfortable with how it’s practically falling off you even when you’ve got it on.

“Remind me what kind of photos you’re taking again?” You ask, gathering up armfuls of your discarded clothes. The only things that feel solid where you’re standing are the chain around your neck and the floor under your feet. Dave turns to look at you, humming thoughtfully to himself before coming up to you and cinching the rope around your waist tight. You wheeze.

“I have no idea.” He says. “I threw together a bunch of seemingly-meaningful crap like a bleach-blond waif in a toga at the top of a lighthouse come sunrise, whatever it means will be up to my sister and her literature degree. Sometimes I’ll throw in a caption in the description plaque. Most of the time I give it a title and leave the rest blank.”

You pick at the rope he tightened and realize it literally is a curtain rope. He lightly smacks your hand away. “Paying you to keep that on; I know you’re probably not used to making money by _wearing_ clothes but I’m not up for anything going like three hundred feet off the ground. We do things at ground level around here.”

“Except for taking photos.”

“Exactly. Now.” He moves away from you and heads back to the tripod he’s set up, taking the camera off the band around his neck and putting it in place. He does a few more adjustments before gesturing for you to go towards the half of the lantern room where your back will be towards the rising sun. “Try to look ethereal.”

~!~

You only have a couple hours to take the photos, but it feels like he takes hundreds of photos for every minute you’re there. He spends most of the time muttering to himself while you stand around looking… well, he says you’re doing pretty well at “ethereal” but you mostly just feel awkward.

Still, even though he says you’re doing a good job, the way he goes about it doesn’t seem like you are. He keeps stopping every couple minutes to drink out of a different thermos that was hidden in his bag, and then coming up to you to readjust your poses.

You’d be certain he was doing it just to get his hands on you, if it weren’t for how he only holds you for like half a second before letting go and hurrying back to the camera as soon as you’re roughly in the right place. At least he gives you a lot of feedback. You’re surprised at the effort he puts into it, with how he’d made it sound like he didn’t care earlier.

He frowns and gestures for you to turn your head a little more, but the sun’s risen high enough that it kind of hurts to look in that direction now. Whatever expression you’re making clearly isn’t doing it for him because he sighs.

“Alright, that’s enough for now, put your clothes back on. I need to go over which of these photos are workable.” He says, taking the camera off the tripod and taking the tripod to the bag he’d brought with him. “Same thing at sundown, alright?”

“Right.” You don’t know what else to say, watching him put his things away. You pick your clothes up off the floor where you’d bundled them up earlier and start getting dressed.

“One more thing, I’m paying you in cash, right?” He says, and you nearly fall down the stairs near the lantern because you hadn’t seen him come so close. You hear him chuckle very quietly and you scowl when you pop your head through the collar of your shirt. “Ease up a little, man, I’m not trying to get rid of you just yet.”

“That’s because you still need me for more of your hipster shots.” You brush your pants down with your hands. “... I do have to admit that I’m a little curious how the whole thing turned out, though. You didn’t sound like it was going well.”

He shakes his head. “Hard to tell until the final product’s ready. But hey, you can pick a couple downstairs while you tell me about yourself some more, yeah?”

You blink at him. “What?”

“About Skaia.” He says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and you’re so floored by him actually remembering what to call it this time that you don’t catch the way he laughs until he’s got his back to you.

“Might inform which of these shots make it to the final show, or a title for the whole thing. Who knows. Now come on.” He says, and starts walking down without you. You look to the rising sun over the water and take in the light before you follow, and something in you wonders if he’s starting to remember or you just want to believe that.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a quick blowjob/handjob scene in this chapter.

Another week goes by like this, and you almost, almost, forget that you’re looking for a way to get back to Skaia. Dave doesn't give you the time to think about anything else but the shoot and timing and aesthetics when you're with him at sunup and sundown, and in between all that he can't seem to shut up for longer than twenty seconds, so you find yourself entertaining his bullshit rather than thinking of leaving. He takes one picture out of hundreds for the set per day, so it takes a lot to find the perfect one even with your help.

The only reason you don't forget entirely is because of him reminding you by asking about it. Even so, you're jarred whenever he does, as if he's slapped you.

He may as well have, with how much it hurts every time. Sometimes you don't want to tell him about it, just because _looking_ at him reminds you of home. Sometimes you want to scream in his face that he should fucking know.

~!~

You finally crack at the end of the week. You've been talking about the fucking architecture, and Terezi, and any number of other meaningless things that he prompts you for when there’s a lull in the “conversation”. It's a full moon tonight, and maybe the silver-blue light is driving you a little crazy because you haven't had much sleep and this isn't the usual time for a shoot.

What kind of drives you _really_ crazy is how, crouched quietly behind the camera, he only seems to acknowledge what you're saying so you keep flapping your mouth, as if you’re only there to provide background noise to whatever bullshit creative process he’s using to get things moving. You stop and glare right at the camera, and when you don't change pose or continue at his behest, he sighs and straightens up, stretching and leaning on top of the camera itself.

“Okay, I give, you’re probably tired.” He picks up a bottle of water and lobs it at you, and you catch it one-handed but don’t drink. He pulls his shades off and squints at you in the dark, his eyes almost brown except for when the lighthouse beam passes under his face. “What’s up?”

“I feel like a chattering prop.” You say. Then you take a breath and say what you actually mean. “Do you believe a word of what I’m saying? Do you have any single recollection of anything here? Why do you keep asking me about Skaia if you’re just going to brush off everything about it that I tell you?”

“I think I should be blunt here and say no, I don’t believe any of it.” He says, though he doesn’t look at you while he fiddles with his camera settings.

You want to scream, but your voice comes out a hiss. “Doesn’t answer everything else. Why do you bother asking, then?”

“It’s good for the photos.” Your throat closes up as he says it. He looks up, putting his shades back on. “Do you want to sleep downstairs or something? I don’t actually know where you’ve been spending the night, it’ll be easier to get you in and out of costume if you’re close by.”

You look out towards the darkness just beyond the lighthouse’s reach and cross your arms. “I’ll be down in a bit.” You say, voice brittle. Fuck, you’re exhausted, you’ve been doing this all day and hanging around him all week and you feel like he’s scraped you thin from the inside out now that you can think about it.

“Cool.” He says, and starts heading down. You’re left alone with the lantern beam and your clothes on the floor and the sheet wrapped around you, and you somehow feel like the cold’s gone down to your bones.

You touch the star where it hangs around your neck. He hasn’t told you to take it off for any of the pictures, so you assume it’s a detail that works for him. He hasn’t really asked about it either, so maybe he assumes it’s just a piece of jewelry you’re attached to. It doesn’t particularly matter. You head downstairs and clutch it tight in your fingers, your clothes under your other arm. You consider where this is going, what you’ve done to get here already.

The second floor is quiet but one of the thin-walled rooms is has an open door. You’d learned that the keeper sleeps downstairs, near where the generators are, and up here is where he lets tourists and guests stay, so you assume Dave’s sleeping in that one or he wouldn’t have offered.

He looks surprised just as soon as you enter, and then he’s got his face smoothed back down to the usual almost-stern blankness it always has when he’s not wearing his shades, except for how his eyes dart to the door behind you. You drop your things and cross your arms.

You chuckle, flatly. “Didn’t expect me to come in?”

“Not with a mood like upstairs, no.” He says, and sits up in the narrow cot, almost getting up. Your throat still feels tight but you walk towards him before he can and put your hands on his shoulders, looking him in the eye, looking for any sign that you shouldn’t be doing this and knowing you’re not going to find one.

Wordlessly, you kiss him, and he makes a noise against your mouth but runs his fingers through your hair. You wonder if he can taste your contempt when you bite him, but he groans into your lips and pulls you closer. You put your hands on either side of his head and tilt yours to deepen the kiss, tongue swiping into his mouth.

You kiss down his neck, sucking on his collarbones, and get on your knees between his thighs. When you look up at him you feel a flutter under your ribs at his reddened lower lip and the marks on his thin, pale skin, so easily marked by just your lips. The contrast with your hands on his hips when you start pulling his underwear off is strikingly stark, and you feel his muscles tense under your fingers when his cock comes free, half-hard already.

“You know this isn’t what I’m paying you for.” He breathes, though one hand is still petting over your hair. You look up at him through your lashes. He gulps, and you can see it bob in his throat. “By all means continue. But this is kind of unprofessional, isn’t it?”

“Like everything else you’ve put me through already.” You murmur, and slide your tongue up the underside in a quick, hot lick before he can answer. “Push me off if you don’t want it, then.”

He doesn’t, but he gasps and _writhes_ when you take the head between your lips, tip of your tongue easily fitting into the crease between glans and shaft and sliding lower when you take more of him. He shivers, but you keep his hips pressed against the mattress so you can control the pace, and he twists his fingers in your hair but never pulls.

He tastes… clean, is the only way you can put it. His hair was dry when you had your hands in it, but he doesn’t taste acrid with a day’s exertion like some others you’ve tried. His cock pulses warmly when you suck, and you do it again as you start pulling off before you go down again. Your eyes close as you moan in turn.

“Karkat, fuck, _Jesus Karkat_ ,” He lets go of your hair but grips the sheets and arches his back, breathing hard as he whispers your name. “Fuck, _fuck_ , someone’s going to hear, holy shit I do not want that crusty motherfucker downstairs hearing any of this, holy _shit_ ,”

You smack him lightly on the thigh. _Then shut up._ But secretly you want someone to hear him, just to be cruel, just to get a little back for how little he actually _listens_. You suck harder and moan again, and let go of his hips to untie the fucking curtain you’re wearing.

You’re naked underneath, so that makes things a lot easier for you when you take some of the drool starting to slide down your chin to slick up your fingers some. It’s rough and not exactly ideal, but it feels good enough when you start stroking your own cock in time to sucking him off. He growls, thighs tensing, obviously fighting to keep himself from clamping his legs around your head. It’s oddly considerate, you think.

You pull off to kiss up and down the sides, even tongue at his balls a little though you don’t want to take them in your mouth. He huffs when you start teasing the head again, petting your hair like you might run your hands over a pet. Your lips and jaw are getting sore from holding that tight o-shape for his cock, but fuck, it’s a beautiful sight to see him jerking under you as you blow him.

“ _Jesus,_ shit, I don’t know where you learned to suck cock like this and I don’t think I want to find out, but whoever taught you should get an award, oh my God, _fuck_ ,” It’s all nonsense to you, but it’s encouraging nonsense. You grind your tongue against the vein on the underside and he keens, clapping a hand over his mouth. The wet, slick sounds of your mouth on him are almost as good as his chattering.

He cums without much more noise than he’s already been making, but his body speaks for him, his toes curling, his back arching, his fingers pulling you down to the base of his cock. You choke, but you take it, you swallow every drop and even coax the last of it out of him with your tongue. You yourself don’t get to finish, but you’re not complaining. It’s not as sticky as you expect it to be, doesn’t cling to the back of your throat when you swallow, even though the flavor lingers.

He pants as you pull off him and wipe your chin off on your arm. He actually collapses backwards on the mattress, and you have to prod him into rolling over properly so you have some space for yourself in the tight confines of the bed.

He looks at you tiredly, dizzily, not quite focused when he looks at you at all. Then he wrinkles his nose. “Your breath stinks of cock.”

“Whose fault is that?” You mutter.

“Your own, considering you came onto _me_.” He yawns then, and when he pulls you close and buries his face in your shoulder, you let him. “Don’t know what the Hell brought that on, but I’m not exactly complaining.”

“Mmh.” You fiddle with the star around your neck. The edges of the wire are starting to scratch up the stone. “You’re the one who invited me into your bed.”

“Maybe so.” He yawns again. “Will it be enough to pay you for it tomorrow?”

You consider. It leaves your tongue dry and your guts roiling with something you don’t quite grasp, but you’re sleepy and aching for more in a way you don’t want to ask for. “I don’t want payment for this one.” You say instead. It seems to be enough.

When you feel his hand on your half-hard cock, sleepily stroking you, you only hiss quietly. His fingers are bony, but warm, and it’s an easy thing to grind against his slow, waiting touch. His chin digs into your shoulder as he watches you roll your hips, his own flush against your ass. It’s probably not very comfortable.

You get off after a little while. You’re pretty sure he falls asleep before you do, and you spend a few minutes just playing the whole thing over and over in your mind before you drift off with him still holding you, his breath and heartbeat against your back, the sound of waves crashing against the cliff outside.


	6. Chapter 5

You hear seagulls and crashing waves, smell the faint, salty rot of seaweed. Somewhere below you, the lighthouse keeper opens the creaky door to the lighthouse and flops heavily into a chair. The bitter smell of coffee wafts up through the floorboards and sits heavy on your tongue. You’re tangled and too-warm and the chain of your star necklace is cutting into your neck. The sheets cling to your legs.

It’s the first time in a month that you’ve woken up without someone else sharing a bed with you, and somehow- even knowing that last night was on you, even knowing that Dave had no obligation to wake up with you- it feels off. Your head feels like putting on a shoe that’s slightly too loose, in the way that it makes you want to rattle your skull around until you get whatever’s hanging over you out of the way or you find yourself in the right headspace again.

You roll over onto your back and turn your head to bury your face in the worn pillow you’d shared with him. It’s still warm, so you at least know he hasn’t left you that long. In the dim, airy space between waking and sleep, you wonder if you’re going to get paid.

Quiet footsteps. The click of a camera. You open your eyes and lift your head and he’s fucking there, taking a shot of you on a little black rectangle thing that only barely resembles the camera he uses for the shoots.

“What the fuck?” You murmur, slurring and sleepy.

He snorts, puts the camera in his pocket. “You could have held still a little longer, that was perfect.” He says, sitting next to you. He’s wearing pants now, and his hair is actually wet, so he’s definitely taken a shower. “No hot water, by the way; I don’t know how Salty Pete down there bears it every day, but if you’re quick and rub down a lot you won’t die of hypothermia.”

You whack him lightly with the pillow, and even laugh. You’re… glad that he hasn’t left, actually. You tell yourself it’s because you were worried about all the time he’s spent on taking photos of you and all the time you’ve wasted letting him do so, how much money you’d have lost if he was gone.

Still creepy, though, and you’re not letting it go so easily.

“That ‘what the fuck’ was about your taking pictures of me naked and half-asleep, not about the fucking water.” You mutter, more clearly now as you start pushing yourself off the bed. You shiver when your skin hits the cooler air that’s always a few fucking centimeters above where you’re lying down for some reason, and you rub your arms. The thin blankets have ended up on the floor sometime in the night, so you’re pretty much wrapped in bedsheet from the waist down.

“Are you going to take that shower or what? We’re a little late today even with sleeping in the same bed; I slept like a baby on old-timey cough syrup last night.” He yawns as if to emphasize that. “It’s starting to sound like a pretty good idea to go back to sleep if all I’m getting right now is pillows to the face, anyway, but lucky for you I have more self-control than that.”

“I’m not really seeing it.” You rub your eyes and roll your shoulders, which takes maybe a couple seconds, and somehow you hear him take out the camera and snap _again_ in the time it takes. You narrow your eyes at him while he examines the pictures. “You’re not going to tell me what those are for, are you. I’m going to just have to assume you’re selling them somewhere besides your art shows.”

He flicks hair out of his eyes. “Nope, they’re for private use.”

You scoff and move to the edge of the cot, gathering the sheets around your waist to afford you some measure of warmth as you follow the trail of wet footsteps out the door.

The bathroom is barely a bathroom at all, just a spigot and a shower sticking out of the wall a little further away from the guest room with the same thin walls every other part of this floor has. The floor is tile, though, and has a drain in the middle. You glance behind you with the sneaking suspicion that Dave’s around the corner.

You don’t know why you had that suspicion though, that was stupid. You drop the sheet and kick it to the side, closing the door behind you.

The water is cold enough to make you shriek.

~!~

There’s another assortment of barely-there clothing waiting where the sheet was when you come out. You frown, shivering, and look up to where Dave is standing with the other camera around his neck.

“Like I said, we’re late.” He says, handing you a towel, but this time you shake your head.

“I want to see them, first.” You say, through chattering teeth, as you quickly dry your hair with the scratchy towel and then the rest of yourself, modesty forgotten in the cold. It’s not like you didn’t suck his dick last night, after all, and he jerked you off in the bed after that; you don’t really have any more to hide from him, not that you had much to hide in the first place.

He raises an eyebrow. “Them as in…?”

“The photos you’ve got picked out. I want to see what I’m working towards.” You’re starting to get warmth back under your skin by now, at least, even if the towel around your hips is damp. You stand a little straighter. “I don’t have any proof but what you say that those shots of me upstairs aren’t just contributing to your private _collection_ like the ones earlier in the bedroom. Show me, already. I haven’t seen the final product of any of this.”

You think he’s going to make up some bullshit excuse and say no. Instead he shrugs and gestures for you to follow him back to the bedroom. “My laptop’s in there.” He says, by way of explanation, not that it means anything to you. “Can’t bring anything to develop actual photos around here with all the light and the saltwater, so it’s digital. At any rate, for this project, it’s easier to work with.”

You cross your arms. “Just show me.”

“Alright, come on.” He doesn’t wait for you this time, just heads back to the room and starts rummaging around. “Here I thought picking someone out of a crowd might save me from this kind of attitude but honestly I’m starting to suspect it’s just an effect of being around my particular brand of charm.”

“Sure it is.” You lean against the doorframe as he finally finds what he’s looking for, a slim, black panel of what looks like metal that reminds you of maybe an empty book cover. It splits open about the same way a book might, but he lays it on its side, on the bed, and does something you don’t quite catch to it that makes it light up.

You walk closer and sit beside him. Letters, numbers, little squares arranged on a grid that he taps at. You ignore them in favor of the lit screen where he pulls up the pictures in miniature and then has them fill the screen.

“There.” He says. He leans back so you can get a better look. “Haven’t added any effects or manipulations or whatever yet, but I think they look alright.”

It’s hard to believe you’re looking at yourself.

You look… softer, more wistful maybe; you can kind of see why he asked you to talk about home, now. He switches between the photos, the different times of night that you took them; there’s five so far and you know he told you there’s nothing behind them, not really, but you can almost, just barely, tell what you were remembering when you look at them.

But that’s probably just you. Anyone else would see a mournful young man in a lighthouse wearing little more than a sheet. You look like a ghost, glaring into the camera or into the distance, or pressed against the glass like you want to break through.

“So, you got what you needed?” Dave asks, practically in your ear. “I told you I wasn’t done with it all, it’s still gotta be narrowed down from the rest besides these five.”

You blink, turning your head to face him. “How many are you actually going to keep?”

“Most of them, probably.” He shrugs. “It wouldn’t be much fun to tell you what for, but I can guarantee only a handful are going to make it to actually getting printed.”

It still feels off. You scratch at the back of your neck, feeling out the comforting shape of the chain’s clasp.

“If you’re done with the previews…” He looks at his watch and actually frowns. “Hm, nevermind. Looks like you’re free until sundown again. Lighting’s gonna be off up there if we take the pictures now. You mind getting dressed already or what? We should be getting something to eat right about now.”

Oh, right, you’re naked. And besides the clothes you wore yesterday, any changes of actual clothing you have are back at the motel. It’s just a good thing the weather’s been on the cooler side of mild or your clothes would be a lot grosser than they are now.

You get dressed as he puts the laptop away. Every now and again you sneak a look at it, wondering what else he’s going to do to those photos. You’re not actually sure if he was joking about “private use” earlier, but somehow it doesn’t seem like the kind of private use you would usually expect of your unofficial “clients”, even if he’s already so far out the range of usual that he’s not playing the same game.

Sometimes you’re still half-convinced that he’s from Skaia too, and you just have to help him remember, some way or another. You watch him straightening out his jacket and polishing his shades before you get up and wait for him in the doorway.

“Do you mind if I buy breakfast this time?” You ask. He looks at you, one eyebrow raised over the shades. “I’m not saying I don’t like what you pick out; I just want something different. You’re paying me already, too. I don’t want to feel like everything you do is to get something out of me, and it’s going to feel like that while I work for you.”

“Is that why you blew me last night?” You feel your face heat up, almost aching from the rush of blood. At least he has the decency to flush a little, even in the low light, even with the apathy in his tone. “It was a pretty great blowjob, just saying; a guy might feel like paying for that with a little protein that doesn’t come out of-”

You groan, loudly. “Please don’t continue that.”

You actually hear a _chuckle_ , and feel his arm around your shoulders.

“Just fucking with you, man.” He claps you on the shoulder, twice, then lets go and starts heading for the stairs, trailing the fingers of one hand through the flaking whitewash on the wall. “But yeah, alright, you can buy me breakfast this time. Whatever makes you happy.”

Something tightens in your throat at that. You ignore it, for the moment. “We’ll need to head back to the motel I was staying at; that’s where most of my stuff is.” You say. “My wallet’s on me, but I still don’t want to just leave it there where someone else might get at it; it’s happened before.

“Got it, motel, probably herpes on every available surface and some that bear questioning.” He runs a hand through his hair and starts walking.

You manage to keep up this time, and hip-check him on the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not very happy with this one, but at least I got it out on time.


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ssssoooort of a sex scene in this one except not really. It's mostly just fluff, and then angst.

Pretty much from then on, you sleep in the lighthouse with him. You feel like it's too familiar, too close to something like an actual relationship, but you're so starved for something resembling honest interpersonal interaction that you take it anyway.

It isn't the last time you blow him and let him touch you. It becomes another part of the arrangement, you think; everything as it is has to be part of this job, or it'll drive you crazy with how close it is to romance, how close it is to something you've never had.

~!~

Just after sundown, after you've taken some pictures on the edge of the cliff outside of the lighthouse for once, and after you've put on some pants, you stop him before he goes inside.

“Don't you want to go anywhere? As in right now.” He looks at you questioningly and you continue. “You've seen nothing but the inside of this lighthouse for two weeks, maybe longer, and I've only known you for almost a month but that's bound to be some kind of health hazard.”

He snorts. “You know it's not part of the deal for me and you to go everywhere together, right? That's kind of how it worked out these past few days, but it's not really official.”

You feel a sting at that. “I know, just… As an invitation, maybe?”

He pauses, looking you up and down. Even with your clothes on instead of the diaphanous costumery you shoot in, you feel incredibly naked.

“What,” He smirks, crooked and cocky, like you've offered him a private joke. “You mean like a date?”

And _then_ it dawns on you what you've just said. What you just _offered._ It's not like sucking him off in the slow, wet dark before bed, or buying hm breakfast out of a misplaced sense of honor. You don't want to refuse, either; not with him waiting on your answer.

You lick your lips, slightly cracked in the cold evening. Somehow you return a steely, toothy grin. “ _Exactly_ like a date.”

The way he throws his head back to laugh doesn't hide his surprise in the slightest, or his delight. You're getting good with his tells, and you don't know what that means for you just yet.

~!~

It's a small town without very much to look at, as you both discover wandering it, but it's picturesque enough that every few minutes, when you start to feel like this was a dumb idea, Dave finds something to pose you around for a “candid” shot or two. You find yourself the subject of several of these portraits while the two of you look around, up to posing with a fountain and a pretzel vendor.

“Wasn't the point of getting out of that lighthouse to _avoid_ more work?” You say, as you hand him one of the cinnamon pretzels you'd been convinced into buying, crumbs dusting your cheeks from the one you'd eaten. He snaps a shot of that, too, with the strange, flat camera from before.

“You should know by now that I don’t think of every photo I take as work.” He says, gesturing you over. “I mean, come on, it's a little vain of you to think I'd use every shot of you for a show.”

He has a point. The shots he's taken this evening are still composed the same way he places everything in the lighthouse deliberately, but they're more crowded in with detail, more solid. If it weren't for your hair and eyes, you'd look like you belonged in them.

“Hm.” You tilt your head, and then look at him. His nose is a little red in the cold, his cheeks flushed faintly. “Do you ever take photos of yourself?”

“They're called selfies. Did they not have selfies up there?” He says, finally accepting the pretzel and taking a bite. He continues around a mouthful of it, “Haven't in a long time, though, and I'm not letting you at my camera if that's what you're asking. You just focus on looking pretty on the other side of the lense, yeah?”

You shrug, lips pressed tight. “I don’t think I’ve fucked that up yet.”

“Perfect.” He doesn’t seem to notice you being petulant about it, instead finishing off his pretzel. Before you can snap at him, he tosses something at you, and you fumble to catch it.

“Make a wish.” He says.

You frown and look at what you’ve caught, a silvery little coin. It can’t be real silver, though; it doesn’t sting you for holding it. You hold it up to the lamplight ringing the square and watch it glint.

You probably look like an idiot, examining the coin. Dave coughs into his hand. “You’re really deliberating on it, aren’t you?”

You shouldn’t be thinking about this as hard as you are, but. Going after a wish is what brought you here, and the dead star hanging off your neck is a reminder of that as much as it might be a way to get home. _More_ of a reminder, if you’re being honest with yourself, than really any sort of key. You squeeze the coin and turn it over in your fingers.

“Karkat?” Dave pauses, just a breath or two. “... Hey, space cadet, it’s no big deal there. Wishes aren’t that big a deal here.”

You look up at him. He doesn’t wince, to his credit, but his mouth hangs open like he’s going to say something else and then shuts with an audible clack. From there you can practically watch him rewrite whatever it was he was going to say in his head from the shoulders down.

He scratches the back of his head, picks at his fingernails, leans his weight slightly away from you. It’s subtle, but you feel like you’ve made some kind of mistake.

You smile, brittle as sugar glass, and flip the coin over your shoulder. You hear it make a splash and he seems to relax marginally at that.

He whistles a low note. “Landed in the top bowl, too.”

“Does that mean anything here?” You turn, looking at him.

He shakes his head and readjusts his shades. “Could mean you’re lucky, I guess. It’s a pretty hard shot to make over your shoulder.” There’s a pang of disappointment in you, hearing that, but you look at the fountain again and you’re so used to wishes working a certain way that you can’t help but expect something to come of it anyway.

“So what did you wish for?” He asks, as you link your arm in his and let him lead you away from the square. You turn your head to watch the glittering fountain jets as you walk, only barely aware of the asphalt under your feet as Dave leads you down the road.

“That I could go home, of course.” You say. “What else is there I would want to wish for?”

He makes a turn and the fountain goes out of view. “I would probably wish for a million bucks, but that’s just me. Not really thinking about inflation in that regard, either; it’d probably be a disaster if that wish came true.”

You stay quiet. Your throat’s gone suddenly dry; not scratchy, but like you’ve swallowed something stinging. You can’t quite breathe. The both of you stop walking, more because you’ve slowed down to a stop, and he actually takes a step and a half after you before he realizes you’re not moving anymore, even with your hand on his elbow.

It’s quiet here, in this little side-street, a ways off from the busier part of town at night. Dave takes a step closer to you. “What’s going on with you?”

“It’s been nearly two months.” You say, flatly, because you feel like you might vomit if you say it any louder than you are. Your voice shakes like you’re about to throw up, or more like something is crawling up out of your throat, sharp and bitter. You frown. “It’s been nearly two months I’ve been here, and I’ve spent a month taking pictures instead of trying to find a way back.”

You laugh, a cracked, hurt kind of noise. “I don’t think anyone’s looking for me at this point. Skaia’s not big enough for it to take a month to look for one person, especially someone who could never fly.”

He cuts in. “I’m not really good at comforting people.” He says, though he keeps a hand on your shoulder to still you. “For what it’s worth, you make a damn good model.”

You look up at him, his pale, placid face with the oversized shades and thin, razor-straight lips. He lets go of your shoulder, his own shoulders coming up for a second as he shrugs. “I don’t do well with the waterworks, so whatever you’re handling right now, can you do that when we’re back in the lighthouse? I swear, you can bawl like someone just shot your grandma and I’ll shut up through the whole thing, just Jesus, don’t do it out here.”

“I’m not going to cry.” You hiss, even as you feel hot tears starting to sting your eyes. Your shoulders shake with a sob. “Fuck, or at least I wasn’t. _Fuck!_ ”

“Hey.” He rubs your back. You cringe away from his touch, but there’s nowhere to go with how he’s got his arm curled around you, his voice down to a murmur. “Hey, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about the fucking wish, okay? Just. Shh. _Shh._ Don’t cry, not like this, holy shit.”

You take a couple deep breaths and let them all out at once. It shudders, but you hold yourself together a little more, wipe your tears with your sleeve before they can really fall. “I think we’re done for the night.” You say.

“Cool.” He says. He takes you by the hand, a little awkwardly, a little warmly. “Cool.”

The whole affair is honestly kind of humiliating. You squeeze his fingers as he leads you back to the lighthouse like a child who looked too long at the sun. You scrub at your face again, just to make sure the tears aren’t coming.

As soon as you’re past the door, you push him against the wall and kiss him breathless. He makes a noise of protest and you suck it out of his mouth, suck on his tongue and grind your palm between his legs. He moans, and chuckles, breathy and dizzy.

“Really?” He gasps, laughing against your mouth. “Right where Skipper Plumbthroat could walk right in and want a piece of the action?”

“Shut the fuck up.” You hiss, and kiss his neck, biting and sucking a line from his jaw to his collarbones.

You don’t actually do it in the livingroom. You’re not _animals._ But you only just barely make it to the room you’ve been sharing with him, and you only just manage to get his pants opened up and yours off your hips, only just manage to give yourself some perfunctory stretching before he’s in you.

It burns like a motherfucker, so you go slowly, relishing in how the way he fucks you with his hands gripping your thighs makes you forget, for a little while. He fills you up in such a precarious way that you have to focus everything on riding him or you’ll just get yourself _and_ him injured somehow.

You end up limping to the shower afterwards, anyway, pleasantly sore and buzzed and forgetful on the orgasm, and even the cold water doesn’t do much to burn it all away. You both resolve to sleep naked again, even though you have some clothes to sleep in.

You face each other in the dark now, sort of. He sleeps on his back, his head turned towards you, while you sleep curled on your side. Except you’re not sleeping now. You’re so close you could count his eyelashes, just as snowy-white as your own.

You close your eyes and try to reshape the face in front of you into someone from back home, and as you start to fall asleep you realize, it’s only been two months but you _can’t_.


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Missed a day because I fell asleep, whoops.

You wake up the day after your little date feeling groggy and miserable in a way you can't fully shake. You keep blinking too slowly, imagining maybe if you close your eyes and look into the dark long enough, you might remember.

No such luck. The black behind your eyelids remains just that.

When you open your eyes, though, your memory isn't the only thing with gaps in it. The space beside you is still warm, but Dave isn't in the room.

You've woken up beside him for two weeks already, which is longer than anyone else quite literally on Earth, so this is a less than welcome change. Especially after last night. You still feel sore and stretched from it, and your clothes are rumpled and sweaty, only adding to the general feeling of _tiredness_ that doesn't seem to want to let you go.

You crawl out of the bed and finally the world seems a little more real, a little more solid. Downstairs you smell coffee and frying oil, which is weird, because usually the lighthouse keeper is done with breakfast before sunrise. It all adds up in a way that makes your throat go tight; not like last night, but with some kind of dread.

You finally make your way downstairs, the wood-and-stone steps creaking slightly under your weight. Slowly, because you’re still waking from that dreamlike certainty that you’re alone again, that you’ve done something inexcusable that’s made him decide whatever art project or fantasy he’s got going on isn’t worth your issues.

Halfway down the stairwell you hear Dave's voice and actually sag against the railing in relief, clinging to it like it might keep you from sinking through the floorboards.

“... been a _great_ host, really, though I can totally see why you wouldn’t want to turn the place into like a traveler’s lodge or whatever; anyway, you take cards, right?” Dave has his back to you right now, talking to the lighthouse keeper. He speaks loudly enough that you can hear pretty much every word from where you stand, except for whatever the keeper says, but he’s never been talkative or loud for the entirety you’ve been here. “Right, ‘course you don’t. Didn’t really expect you to. You take checks? Great, perfect, I’ll write you some extra, too.”

You lean against the wall for a minute and then remember it’s covered in whitewash and push yourself off it. The floor creaks loudly under you and Dave looks over his shoulder like he expects to see a ghost.

“Oh, good, you’re awake.” He says instead. You see his shoulders relax just a little from that, and he hands the lighthouse keeper a slip of paper that you’re pretty sure is more money than you’ve ever _seen_ here, before he’s suddenly right in front of you. You have no idea how he crossed the room that fast. “Didn’t want to wake you up, but if you’re awake anyway I guess that gives me the chance to be a little sentimental.”

You look at him, really look at him, trying to see what you hope you won’t. “What do you mean?”

“I mean this is about where I say goodbye, thanks for all your help, here’s like three hundred dollars that I know you didn’t want to agree on but that I’m pretty sure is how much I owe you anyway, because let it never be said that Dave Strider doesn’t pay what he’s due.” You stare at him, numbly, as he pats himself down to look for the cash before smoothly running a hand through his hair and sighing through his nose. “Actually, I don’t have that on me right now, do you want to come with me to an ATM or something?”

“No,” You say, automatically. “No, where are you going? I don’t think I was _that_ bad in bed, was I?” You feel like you should apologize, but you swallow it down. Dave’s lips tighten the way they do when he’s trying not to laugh, and you don’t know if he’s laughing at _you_ or at something else.

“Jesus, man, you were fine. I had to get up in the middle of the night to clean myself up because I do _not_ take well to sleeping in my day clothes, but that’s more to do with my hypochondriac hygienic issues than it’s got to do with you.” He looks at his watch, that shitty, pink, plastic thing he hasn’t taken off once. “Look, my plane’s coming in like half an hour and I need to be at the airport like, _now_ , so if you don’t mind?”

Your throat tightens. He looks at you like he wants to wince, and speaks quieter, slower. “Hey, it wasn’t going to last. We both knew that going in, we worked out a contract and everything. Did you lose track of the time”

“I know, fuck you, I knew exactly what this was when I went into it.” Your voice doesn’t crack, at least, to your credit. Your face feels hot with something you can’t name, your chest tight and aching.

“No need to get salty about it, bro.” He says, pushing his shades up his nose and leaning away from you. He checks his phone for a second, texting while you have an internal breakdown. You’re simultaneously thankful and furious, though you _think_ you do a pretty good job of covering it up when he looks up.

“So, hey, three hundred dollars after room and board is pretty good after my company, right?” You bite your lip and nod. “Right.” He puts his phone away. “Go upstairs and get your stuff. I have a new contract for you, and it involves showing you off in sunny Barcelona.”

You stare. He looks completely nonchalant about it, and you have to try so, so hard not to punch him in the face. “You didn’t think I was dropping my new favorite just like that, did you?” He says, even allowing himself a wicked little smile. “I don’t roll like that, at least not anymore, and I could squeeze a screenplay out of you yet.”

You clap your mouth shut (you’re surprised it took you that long to realize it was hanging open) and make your way back upstairs while he takes a call.

You look around at the narrow quarters you’ve shared with him for a month or so. It doesn’t look at all like any kind of home. Both of you kept your stuff mostly confined to your bags, and he’s got more stuff than you here but not by much, a pair duffels instead of a backpack and only one of them full of clothes.

He’s got his nicely cleaned up already, besides the clothes he’s wearing right now. You don’t see them in the room, so he’s probably got them ready downstairs. You, you have to pick up a couple shirts and some socks and roll them into your bag, separated with a ziploc. You’ll have to wash them later.

“Come on, princess, we’ve got a plane to catch!” He calls from downstairs. You wipe your eyes. Your world on the edge of worlds can wait; right now, you’re following Dave Strider into whatever it is he’s got waiting for you in this world.

You consider, for a minute, how much this is going to waylay you from trying to find your way back to Skaia. Then you consider, if he’s taking you further than you could go on your own… you might find a way with his help.

You shoulder your bag and head downstairs.

~!~

What happens is you walk to the edge of town with Dave, him chattering on and you offering the occasional bit of relieved snarking as you try to mask how thankful you are that you’re not going to be left behind and doubly mask how you don’t want to wonder why you’re so opposed to leaving him long after you should be sick of his company.

You wait for another ten minutes for a car to show up, a sleek, shiny black affair that has a driver of all things, efficient and quiet as he takes your bags and puts them in the trunk. You wonder a little at how he takes the door for you, and Dave gestures for you to get in the car first.

Ten minutes into the ride and it’s the smoothest, quietest ride you’ve ever been on, besides the muffled rap music mumbling through the speakers and the almost imperceptible hum of the engine under you. Dave is glued to his phone and you’re practically glued to the window, tinted and rain-specked so the interior of the car seems even darker.

It doesn’t stay that way for long, or at least, not long as you can tell. The sky clears up and then is covered again, this time by buildings. People throng around the car, an ebbing, flowing mass of bodies that sometimes you can’t quite see through. It feels like they’re crushing in on you, even without them really paying attention to you while you’re in the car, even though you can barely hear them _through_ the car.

When you actually get out, at what Dave tells you is an airport- well, he gets out first, actually; he actually grabs you by the arm before you can get through the door.

“What gives?” You hiss, but he gestures at a sudden crowd with a flick of his head and then eases his way past you.

“This is what happens where people know me.” He says, and tugs you out after him.

There’s gawking and screaming and flashing, and you have to be led through by the hand. You almost get separated from him. You squint through the lights and suddenly understand why he has those shades on all the time. (You secretly wonder if you can get a pair.)

“Dave!” Someone cuts through the crowd with ease, someone Dave clearly doesn’t mind the presence of as much as everyone else because this guy leads you somehow through the sea of people and cameras and into a lounge of some kind. He laughs, Dave laughs, openly, it’s surreal to watch.

“You’ve got us nearly missing our flight, you goober.” New guy- tall, thickly-built, with overlarge teeth and twinkling blue eyes a shade too dark- hurries you and Dave across the floor. Then he looks you up and down the same way you’ve probably been looking at him. “This is your new model, right? Little shorter than I thought.”

You sputter, but Dave answers for you. “That’s where the magic of my camera skills comes in.” He says. “Did you get him a ticket or what, John?”

“I did, but it’s not gonna matter if we hang out here. Come on, _sir_ .” John’s smile never seems to leave his face, but it’s a good-natured kind of smile, if a little boyish, a little impish; good-natured might not be the best way to put it, now that you think about it, but it’s certainly, aggressively _cheerful._

You’re surprised at how quiet you’re being, led around while the two of them talk about things you don’t quite catch. It stirs something in the back of your mind; familiarity, you realize, there’s something familiar in the way they snipe at each other and play off each other’s words without really meaning any of the worst of it.

It reminds you of Sollux. You can’t remember Sollux’s face, in full, but you remember mismatched eyes and bony cheeks, too-sharp teeth and a sharper tongue.

The star pulses warmly against your chest. You grip it as John leads the three of you to a line, lets someone take your bags (“It’s fine, man, have you never ridden a plane before?” He asks you, laughing; you decide you kind of think he’s an asshole), and then leads you into a narrow hallway with cloth-and-metal walls, sloping towards a door with a woman standing beside it.

“Tickets, please.” She says. John hands her the tickets and she nods. “Right this way, have a nice flight.”

“Flight?” You mutter, when she’s out of earshot. It’s a narrow room, with nothing but chairs, and closed shelves overhead. Through the oval windows, you realize you’re not exactly in a room, but one of the planes; but not a plane like you’ve ever seen in your life, huge and roaring. You can feel it thrumming under your feet.

“He’s really never been on a plane, where did you find him?” John asks, as if you can’t hear him.

You frown and cut in before Dave can answer. “He found me in a pub and decided I’d be a model for his photos.”

“And you just went with him to wherever he’s taking you? Holy shit.” John smiles brightly at you. “You’re crazier than he is. But that means we’ll get along just fine, doesn’t it?”

You snort. “You have a _seriously_ lacking definition of the phrase ‘get along’.” And that’s that for the moment, because Dave gestures something at John that you kind of miss, and John snickers and finds a seat a little away from you. This part of the plane is pretty empty, you realize, even though you were so late to getting in.

You have a sneaking suspicion as to why, but you don’t get to voice it before a voice tells you to get in your seat and wait until takeoff. You’ll just have to see.

Though you do grip the sides of your seat like a frightened cat when the plane starts to move. Dave pats your hand.

“Just breathe, Karkat.” He says, even shutting the blinds over your window so you don’t watch the world come away beneath you like a reverse of your introduction to Earth. “Just breathe."


	9. Intermission 1, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late again, but only a little bit.  
> A little JohnRoxy in this chapter, but negligible and will probably not show up later.

_ Two months ago… _

Your name is Dave Strider and you have your eldest brother’s funeral to plan.

Let's dial that back a bit. Maybe to the bit where you remember getting the news.

So you woke up this morning to a several missed phonecalls, a couple hundred voicemails and texts, and a killer hangover, which is a pretty common occurrence when you let the Lalondes convince you and John into hanging out with them after dark in a foreign country. It’s a haze of lights and bodies and fruity, tequila-based abominations that may have contained something worse than tequila and fruit juice, judging by how much it hurts. You feel sorry for John, wherever he is.

Point being you have a pounding headache and the Manila Bay at sunrise is a blinding blur through the glass wall along one side of your hotel room. Why did you leave the curtains open? How did you get back to your hotel room in one piece?

Whatever the case, you stagger off the couch and into the bathroom and promptly throw up in the toilet. Stomach emptied of last night’s ill-advised remains, you splash your face with cold water in the sink and give yourself a cursory examination of just how fucked up you are.

You’re paler than usual, your eyes are shadowed heavily by dark circles, and your hair’s an unholy mess. That aside, you’re looking pretty good.

You gargle some water to get the last of the bitter bile taste out of your mouth and actually check your texts. Most of them are deleted, but one bright orange name stands out among the sea of professional, impersonal greys. You click on it and give it a look, and then you wonder if it’s too late to go back to sleep.

According to Dirk’s texts, Bro is fucking dead. 

It’s not clear on what happened or how. You don’t want to know, and maybe that makes you a bit of an asshole, but Christ on a bike, that’s never stopped you before. The man gave you enough grief throughout your time living with him that you’re well past due some assholery at his expense.

However, being that he didn’t have many living family members who wanted to interact with him after you and Dirk left- and being completely fucking honest, you can be counted among that number- it falls onto you, the younger brothers, to arrange a small funeral and you guess get his ashes interred or scattered somewhere. You’re tempted to chuck them out the window the first chance you get, but even though you’ve never believed in ghosts, you get the feeling he’d find some way to screw you over from beyond the grave if you did anything like that.

You’re not sure he won’t screw you over anyway, considering he’s screwing you plenty with just this little announcement.

It takes a lot longer than you think is entirely reasonable, but once you’re semi-sober and at least have your shades on and the blinds drawn so your headache isn’t entirely unbearable, you give Dirk a call so you don’t have to look at the screen of your phone any longer than necessary. Set him up on speakerphone so you don’t have to bother holding it against your head, either.

He picks up on the fifth ring, like he always does; you kind of wonder if he counts them. “Judging by the, what,  _ nineteen _ missed calls I’ve got listed over here, you’re either grieving like he owed you a lot of money or you’re trying to get me to come celebrate with you back in Houston.”

“Nice day to you, too, bro; and I can practically smell the hangover from here. What time is it even, like, six pm? Have you been drinking since morning?” He’s drawling, which means he’s probably some kind of upset, and he thinks you’re in the same timezone; you spare a moment to feel a little bad that what you’re about to say is only going to make it worse.

“Try since sundown, and then I passed out around… I don’t even know when, man; the sun’s up and it’s kind of killing me.” You hear silence on the other end of the line as you fish a bottle of water out of the minifridge. When you come back, it’s still quiet, and you’re holding the bottle against your face. “Dirk?”

“Dave.”  He says, evenly. “Where the Hell are you?”

“You know, I’m starting to think maybe you need to figure out where your priorities lie here; I mean  _ you’re _ over there, and I’m over here, and clearly this is a pretty significant distance because there’s like twelve whole timezones in the Strider sandwich-”

“Dave.” 

“-just getting in on this brotherly action, as in check out this temporal threesome shit; point being it’d be a lot more practical if you handled it by yourself and I never had to think about Bro Strider again.”

“ _ Dave. _ ”

You make a noncommittal groaning noise, because your headache came back.

“Dave, talk to me.”

More noncommittal groaning, because you’re also mostly done talking.

“Dave, for  _ fuck’s sake, _ ”

You finally give.

“I‘m in Manila.” You say, and count to three before you hear the I’m-disappointed-but-not-surprised sigh on the other end. You even throw in some jazz hands, though you know he can’t see it, and mock singing. “Surprise!”

“You’re literally all the way across the Pacific.” He repeats, and you can practically hear him pinching his nose on the other end. “I’m going to assume you’re with the Lalondes, since last I checked at least Rose was in Quezon.”

“Not Quezon, I just said Manila. She and John were here last night.” You crack open the bottle with a twist and take a couple gulps while he sighs again on the other end. “You’re starting to sound like you’re hyperventilating over there.”

“That is nowhere near enough bullshit to get me hyperventilating. You and I both know the guy we both grew up with could get up to worse than that even when I hadn’t left yet. Speaking of which.” Ah, there it is, there’s the part where he tells you some bullshit reason why you’ve gotta come home and do this. “You stay right where you are, alright?”

Scratch that.

“Wait, what?” You actually half get up from your seat, leaning in towards the phone to try and hear better. “You’re gonna have to come again, I don’t think I quite got that.”

You already hear rustling, clanking, swearing on the other side, which means whatever Dirk’s up to, he’s moving around in the cramped space of wherever he is. Something topples and you actually wince at the sound. “Hey, Dirk, you still alive over there? Did whatever half-finished project you just overturned crush you just now?”

“I’m fine.” He says, a little crackly and distant, but at least whole. You hear his boots thunking across the floor and then his voice comes in closer and clearer. “And I mean it when you should stay right where you are, because I don’t trust you not to get your fool ass run over by a horse and carriage or some shit like that.”

“They have buses in Manila, dude. Lots of them.” You mutter.

“Yeah, whatever, don’t get run over by any of them. Don’t even get in the elevator. I’m coming to get you.”

“Wait, what?” But he’s already cut you off. You try phoning him again but he hangs up every time. Shit, looks like he doesn’t want to talk to you until you’re face to face.

Only one thing to do, then.

You dial another one of the numbers that have left you unanswered calls, though no texts.

“Heyyyyyyyy Dave, I have no idea what happened but I sure am covered in a lot of glitter; you wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’d know what exactly went down there, with or on you, besides suspicious molly and a lot of seafood. Is Rose awake yet?” You hear groaning on the other side, sheets rustling, a voice telling John to either come back to bed or give her the blanket. 

John murmurs something that you can’t hear and you feel a little gross just thinking about, really, but he comes back to you in a second. “Yeah, she’s awake and now I sort of am? I’m kinda out of it, my mouth feels like sandpaper.”

“Go drink some water, it’s gonna be like that for a while.” You drink some water yourself as he makes whining noises. “And put Rose on the phone for me unless that was her you were talking to just now, in which case get Roxy and tell Rose I never want to speak to her again.” 

You hear a snort on the other end this time, and more muttering.“That wasn’t Rose, don’t worry, but I guess that means you’re never talking to Roxy again?”

“Oh my God.” You wipe a hand down your face. “Yeah, no, I can forgive her by virtue of not knowing her as long, but I don’t think I’ll be looking her in the eye for a while. Anyway, yeah, this is kind of an emergency, can you get Rose or what?”

“Can’t you just set her to conference call?” He whines some more, and you would roll your eyes if that didn’t make them feel like they were going to roll right out of your skull.

“I wanted to make sure she was prepared, but alright. ” You swipe to draw up your contacts list and find Rose in there somewhere, “Snarky Broad” in lavender. It takes ten rings before she actually answers, which means she’s either ignoring you in the middle of something or just as out of it as you and John, which isn’t so likely.

“Rose Lalonde, how may I help you?”

“Dave’s having some kind of emergency.” John says. 

Rose chuckles in a way that you think is completely unfair for how  _ not _ hungover she sounds. “Do tell.”

“Alright, here we go.” You crack your neck. “My bro’s dead, my good bro Dirk wants me to come home and give him a good Christian burial,” John snorts, Rose snidely remarks that none of you are Christians, “and I need to get as far away from Manila as possible in like the next twenty-four hours without getting run over- Dirk’s words, not mine- because he’s made it some kind of mission of his to come get me back to Houston for the funeral.”

“Hmm. Sounds like a family affair, should I really be here for this?”

“Come now, John; we’re all family, now. Especially after how well you got to know my sister.” Rose coming in for the kill, holy shit. John cackles and you choke on your water.

“Yeah, that’s fair.” John says, once he’s recovered. “Alright, so, you called us because?”

“... Because I have no idea where to go.” You say. You check your watch, weirdly afraid that twenty four hours ticking by will  _ pass _ you by; it hasn’t in a long time, but you wouldn’t be surprised if Dirk somehow managed to speed up the plane ride by sheer determination alone. You look out to the skyline and think man, the sun rises fast here, maybe he really would end up closing in like that. “Somewhere dim for now. And isolated. I think I need to recover from last night for like, a week.”

“Oh please, step up your game.” Rose  _ loudly _ slurps whatever beverage she has on hand on the other end. “And if that’s the case, book it up north. Maybe Scotland. I hear Scotland’s nice. Plenty of interesting things washing up on shore for you to take photographs of. You could make another exhibit of it.”

John mumbles, obviously falling back asleep.

You deliberate on that for a total of thirty seconds before going fuck it. Dirk hates the cold more than you do, he’ll never look for you up there.

“Scotland it is.” You say instead. "Time to load up on thermal underwear and a translation guide."


	10. Intermission 1, part 2 END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly later than intended again, but worth it.  
> A shorter intermission than in An Unfortunate Honor. Also! I have classes this week so things are gonna be a little more difficult re: getting wordcount up daily but I'll do my best.

 

_Two weeks later…_

Well, now you’re in Scotland and your brother has no idea where you are. He’s called you a total of once since you got here, and you’re at least relatively sure you’ve misled him into hunting you down somewhere way further South than you actually are.

As it happens, Rose managed to convince your agent that you’re on some kind of retreat (which she was _enraged_ about, because _how many retreats can one man take, honestly, it’s a good thing he’s got the cash to burn for this bullshit_ ), and now you have to bullshit a fake-deep art project that your dubiously ironic audience will jizz themselves over trying to pick apart like your Sweet Bro Goes To Vegas foray into found-footage film.

Shock factor won’t save you after all that; you need something that’ll hit that fine balance of artsy incomprehensibility and complete garbage that you’ve somehow become known for since you started having fun with these projects again. Trouble is, you have no idea where to start. Being way off from your home turf has a tendency to do that.

With that in mind, you leave your hotel room in busy, bustling Edinburgh and shuttle yourself off to the coastline of nowhere.

~!~

_Another week later…_

You are now in the middle of nowhere.

Actually, it would be more accurate to say you’re on the _edge_ of nowhere, because you’re somewhere coastal. There’s a steep cliff on one side and rolling hills to the other, stone showing through where the topsoil’s been worn away by wind or some shit like that, you’re not an expert on natural phenomena.

As you walk, your boots crunch in the wet gravel as you walk, waves lapping at your ankles, and you’re honestly beginning to think maybe this wasn’t a great idea after all. Everything tastes faintly cold and salty, even your coffee, which is weird because it was boiling a minute ago and also you added five packets of sugar like you’re courting diabetes. You sip at it frustratedly from a travel mug you bought at a gift shop, a cheerfully painted cartoon lighthouse on it matching the one striking out against the sunset overhead. You’re. Not entirely sure why it’s on at sunset, but you’re not an expert on how lighthouses work, either.

But back on why this wasn’t so great an idea. This wasn’t so great, because at least Edinburgh had a decent internet connection and more people. You remember down here, very vividly, why you don’t go to the middle of nowhere.

It’s boring as all Hell.

Should you have stayed in Edinburgh, though? Well, no, probably not, with how dissatisfied you were with the areas of it you’d traversed, and while someone might say your muse will find you if you wander long enough, you have enough experience with muse-wrangling to know that sometimes one city just isn’t going to cut it.

Still, you’re not sure how long you can stay here before you run out of excuses to yourself, and you’ve already run out of personal excuses for beachcombing right about now. There’s nothing but trash-strewn seaweed, rocks, and the occasional sea bird down here right now, and if you have to look at one more dubious crisp or condom wrapper just floating kind of impudently over there in your search for inspiration, you’re going to do a sicknasty kickflip off the nearest handle already.

Not really, but that’s what it feels like, especially when you stub your toe on a rock that looked like one of the little ones but was apparently attached to something deeper under the loose gravel around it. You swear up and down for a good minute before limping back up the less-steep side of the cliff.

~!~

Ten minutes later, your problems are laid out in front of you with a flaky turnover and a fresh cup of (still slightly salty) coffee on the side, you look through the photos you’ve taken on your phone and consider your options for a hot minute. It’s nice in this pub, homey almost, and nobody minds that you’re a weirdo who came from out of town or at least they’re nice enough to ignore you while they have their fun doing whatever it is the locals do for fun; you’re not really paying attention to anyone inside, though you do make sure to look up and look to the door whenever someone new comes in.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve taken a look and hope of finding anything useful on your phone when he comes in, looking even more out of place than you do, especially when you look at him over your shades. He’s so bleach blond his hair looks white, only barely yellowed by the lighting in the pub, which contrasts the darkness of his skin something fierce. The shadows don’t quite fit right on his face, as if he’s lit by something other than the lanterns hanging from the ceiling.

When he looks up and you almost, almost meet his eye, you get enough of a look at his face awash in yellowy light to think he’s incredibly pretty, in a slightly pissed at the world kind of way.

But, no, that’s not the right word.

He’s _beautiful_.

You don’t say that kind of thing, not really, and this stranger has you thinking it with a kind of mesmerized conviction that maybe scares you a little. Even with the way he glowers around the room, you look at him and think _hotdamn_ in a way that’s completely aesthetic.

You realize you’re staring around the time he sits down to read; you can’t see whatever it is he’s reading from where _you’re_ sitting, but you get the idea, he doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now; he might even be waiting for someone. But you’ve got ideas in _your_ head now, posing, lighting, making use of that almost-scowl and those moody eyes just for the camera and maybe you’re not thinking entirely aesthetically about it but you need to give this a shot.

So you make your way over to him and sit across from him all cool like, like you aren’t being kind of a creeper as you wait for him to look up at you and entertain your bullshit. Miracle of miracles, he does, though he doesn’t sound too happy about it.

Somehow you get a deal out of him with your trademarked Dave Strider charm regardless. You leave him be to do whatever it was he was going to do before you interrupted a no-doubt fine day and get yourself ready; or rather, get your actual equipment ready, as well as buying some curtains from a store down the street to turn into a makeshift toga.

You’re pressed for time with him and you can’t just take pictures of him in his day clothes or in the nude just like that, alright? Alright.

~!~

You get another text from Dirk, frustratedly _demanding_ to know where you are. The body isn’t going to last much longer like this, Dave, we can’t just keep him in a freezer like a man-shaped load of burger meat.

You wonder where the we came in, and then he gives you a call. You’re so surprised that you answer.

He cuts to the chase. “What time is it?”

“Six.”

“Good, we’re in roughly the same timezone.”

“In the morning.”

“God _damnit,_ Dave.”

You actually laugh a little at that. “Finally losing your cool over there?”

“Not a chance.” But you can feel him ready to snap behind the words. You feel like an asshole, putting Dirk through this, but you don’t want to face your eldest brother even in death, no matter what kind of death it was. “So where are you?”

“Middle of assbaskets, Massecheusets; come on, Dirk, I’m just going to keep running at this rate and right now I’ve got an art project I need to do, just burn him and be done with it.”

“I _can’t_ , Dave. Not without you; doesn’t he deserve the basic human decency of a proper goddamn funeral?”

“He wasn’t human. You and I both know that.” Before Dirk can say anything else, you hang up. You feel like a massive, gaping, prolapsed asshole, but whatever’s possessed Dirk into doing this for your eldest bro, it’s got no hold on you.

Besides; any minute now, your impromptu model is going to walk in and you’ll have to show him around a little and get him dressed. You don’t have much time for the shoot without the overcast sky turning the lighting murky and depressing, so you’ll have to get him ready in a hurry.

~!~

Karkat is surprisingly easy for you to work with.

He mostly just seems confused by everything you do, all your adjustments and questions. He doesn’t mind talking about himself or his life like some models you’ve had in the past, which is nice.

He’s also some kind of completely fucking nuts, but at least it’s in the internet otherkin weirdo kind of way instead of the axe murderer kind of way. At least as far as you know. He doesn’t strike you as the axe murdering type.

Can’t win ‘em all, but you’ve got a pretty good deal as it is right now. Even when he wonders if you really believe his bullshit, and uh, no, you don’t. You really don’t.

That’s about the time he also gives you a blowjob, which, wow, okay, that was unexpected but not entirely unwelcome. You don’t know how to feel about it at first, until he’s got his lips around you and you can only feel how much more you want. His hair is soft under your hands, his mouth blood-hot around your dick.

You’ve had blowjobs before, sure, but there’s an electrical intensity to having him do it for you, on his knees and in the quiet but for the sound of your swearing and his lips. You could almost see stars, whatever strange stars he’s been talking about, when you cum.

Maybe that’s the point. Give you an orgasm so good you see whatever he sees.

You’re going to keep saying you don’t believe him under any circumstances, if he keeps blowing you like that. You’re not sure if you’re giving him visions when you paw clumsily at his dick in the bed, but he doesn’t seem to mind, and you feel like enough of an asshole over treating your brother the way you have that you can’t really bear the thought of not returning the favor.

~!~

It’s fucked up that you’re treating him better than you treat your own flesh and blood, these days. But flesh and blood haven’t exactly been great to you in the past.

Flesh and blood used to knock out your teeth and throw you down stairs, is what you’re saying. Karkat by contrast has been pretty great to you, all said, in his gruff, kinda touchy way, and you’re not just saying that because he sucks your dick. You’re pretty sure you’re starting to enjoy spending time with him. You don’t think too hard about how that’s gonna go later down the line, because this is a pretty finite contract.

~!~

You get another phonecall from Dirk.

“What time is it?”

“Summertime.” You answer, deadpan. “You walked right into that one.”

“I’m starting to wonder why I try.” He says.

“I wondered that ages ago; you still looking for me? How’s the corpse doing, anyway?” You lean against the wall, looking out the window. There’s going to be whitewash on your shoulder. “You said it yourself, can’t really keep him frozen the whole time or things are gonna be _really_ nasty when it’s time to get him cremated.”

“I’m aware, which is why I’m still begging you, as bros do, to come home. Do it for me, if not him. I really, really don’t want to plan a funeral on my own.”

You sigh, brushing white dust off your arm. “Dirk, listen. Don’t plan a funeral. Nobody’s going to show up that wants anything besides the food and maybe to ask about a will that we both know means donating everything to his biggest fan or whatever. Just save yourself the trouble without me, alright?”

“Dave.” He sounds tired, really tired. You did this, you realize. “I’ll meet you somewhere and we can talk this over there. You don’t have to see him. Just help me scatter the ashes somewhere, alright?”

You know that’s as close to begging as he’ll actually get, and he’ll leave you alone if you say no now. But honestly this avoidance is doing worse for Dirk than it is for you, and he’s your brother, for fuck’s sake; _Bro_ was never much of a brother, but Dirk is very much a _bro_ , and if you’re any more of an asshole at this rate, you’ll turn inside-out.

“Dave?” He asks. He sounds unsure, for once.

“Barcelona.” You finally say. “I’ll meet you in Barcelona and we can get drunk off our asses when it’s over. Text me when you’re there and I’ll meet up. I’ll wire you the money to get there even, just.” You pause just to breathe. Just to compose yourself. “Just I’m sorry, okay?”

There’s a few seconds of silence.

“Okay.” And then Dirk hangs up.

END INTERMISSION


	11. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very late.

Breathing is harder than you expect it to be, but it does get easier once you’re up in the air and the plane evens out on its course. Dave finally lets go of your hand, though only to open up the window for you.

“See?” He says, settling back into his seat. You barely hear him, dizzy with some kind of ceaseless pressure around your head. You feel like you might throw up, though that doesn’t make any sense because the cabin hardly feels like it’s moving at all. The only way you can tell it _is_ is that the clouds outside your window streak by, leaving trails and wisps of vapor on the plane’s massive wings.

You gulp and feel a pop somewhere in the vicinity of your eardrums. This is nothing like flying back home on your glider. This is nothing like _flying_ , really, as you might imagine it. You turn your face away from the window and examine the rest of the plane’s interior, or at least what you can see.

John’s snoring in his seat already, which makes sense. The screens displaying maps on the backs of the chairs tell you it’s a little under three hours to get to your destination. All you know about this Barcelona place is it’s apparently sunny, which will be a huge change from where you’ve been the past couple months.

You run your fingers across the ridges of metal on the star, chewing your lip before you turn your eyes back to Dave. “If I’m being completely honest, I feel like I left my guts back on the ground.”

“Yeah, I felt like that the first time I got on one of these.” He shrugs, taking off his shades and folding the stems. He tucks them into his jacket and rubs at his eyes, leaning back in his seat before folding his arms across his chest, eyes closed. “Gonna be a long ride, too, so I suggest we follow Egbert’s example and get a little extra rest.”

You sigh, still tracing the wire. There's not much to do at this point but wait, and it pains you to do so but you settle in for the ride anyway.

Or at least you start trying to. You’re restless, shifting in your seat and unable to get comfortable despite this chair being the nicest thing you've rested your ass in since you've gotten here. After about the fifth time you've tried and failed to nod off, even Dave can't take it anymore.

“Alright, what's on your mind?” He asks, arms still crossed as he looks at you from the corner of his eye.

You chew your lip and hesitate for once, trying to put it together. What it’s like where you’re going, _why_ you’re going, what it’s going to be like having you there, why Dave is letting you come along; it’s almost too much for you to hold onto and now that he’s asking about it you can’t get it out. You look out the window at the swirls of cloud and the ocean impossibly far below, like the abyss beneath Skaia, and grip the star a little tighter.

“How close are we to the sky right now?” You ask. You can’t quite look up towards it with the shape of the wall, curving in such a way that you can only really look down. You can squint at the distance but it’s not quite right.

“... We’re kind of _in_ it right now?” He says. Some kind of realization must hit him, because he puts a hand on your shoulder, fingers gripping tight. “And you’re staying right in your goddamn seat, because I can guess from all the looney bullfuckery you’ve told me over the past month or so _exactly_ where that question leads, and I did not sign up for impromptu skydiving lessons. Whatever it is you’re thinking, you’re not getting out of this plane until we’re on solid ground again.”

You sniff derisively and turn to look at him, moving to brush his hand off you, but his grip holds firm. “I’m not going to jump out of a fucking plane.” You hiss. “I already know I couldn’t fly back in Skaia, there’s no way I can fly here. I just…” You look out the window again, the edges in your tone softening just slightly. “I just think maybe if I’m close enough I’ll slip back through.”

His hold loosens on your shoulder, though he keeps his hand there. “Through what?”

You grip the star tighter until the edges bite into your palm. You can’t bring yourself to say anything just then, _to Skaia_ or _back home_. You feel tired, and it has nothing to do with the amount of sleep you got last night or how much and how hard you rode him into the mattress.

When you look back at him you can feel that knot forming in your throat again, though your eyes are dry, and even manage to focus on Dave’s face. You gulp, thickly, and still feel like your throat is closing like a trap.

“How long have you been here, anyway?” You ask him.

He raises an eyebrow questioningly at you, seems to realize he’s got a hand on your shoulder, and finally lets you go to settle back in his seat. He keeps his head turned towards you, though. “You’re going to have to explain a little more?” He says.

At first you’re at a loss for words again. You look around for something to go off of and feel the weight of the chain around your neck tug on a strand of hair. It stings, but it gets your attention; you hold up the star to him again.

“You remember I told you I fell from the sky,” You start. “And you said you didn’t believe me. I told you I was looking for something to light the star again, though, to make another wish, or maybe to light my way home; I don’t fucking know what story I’m in but it has to be something like that, right? But you…”

You trail off, lick your lips just enough to wet them. When you start again, it’s a little less frantically, but no less desperate, for something you yourself can’t even name. “You act like you’re running from something. Or maybe you’re trying to find something. You’re in a hurry like whatever it is isn’t going to last long, that if you rest for a minute you’re going to lose it.”

He shrugs. “I have no idea where you’re going with this.”

You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself as you drop the star back against your chest; he makes you want to tear your hair out. When you can breathe again, you continue.

“I’m going in the direction of not believing you when you say you have no idea what I’m talking about. Just from how you deal with me, and how you’ve dealt with all… this.” You gesture at the interior of the plane; _you’re_ not even sure what you mean by it, not really. “It just… doesn’t seem like you’re doing it on a whim, even if you want so much to make it look like you are.”

“Gonna have to say you’re misreading a little here, dude.” He mutters.

You glare. “Am I?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” He doesn’t even miss a beat when he says it, but he doesn’t stop there. “I don’t know what you’re getting at in the slightest, but it’s coming off kinda strong, dude. Even if I had more reasons behind all this than I’m telling you, that’s not how this works. I’m paying you to hang around and talk about Fairy World and take nude pics in hotels and lighthouses, not look into my motivations and tell me I’m probably from wherever you came from, alright?”

You hear a snort from the general direction of John’s seat. The both of you freeze and look towards him. He’s still… well, he looks asleep, but Dave doesn’t unwind. You remember, painfully clearly, that you’re not the only people here. You feel like the few other passengers in this cabin might as well be looking at you.

“How loud were we just now?” You ask.

“Pretty fucking loud.” He shakes his head and turns back to you. “But whatever. I’m not who you think I am. I’m hardly even who _I_ think I am most of the time, so as someone who’s got less experience in dealing with my bullshit? Cut that shit out, alright?”

You bite your lip again; it stings more than you care to admit. He mutters something under his breath that you can’t hear, fast and full of swearing, before turning back to you.

“Don’t make me feel more like an asshole than I already do and we’re cool.” He says.

For a few seconds you just gape your mouth open and closed like a caught fish. Finally you breathe through your nose and lean back against your seat.

“I don’t know what else to say, anyway.” You say, your breath misting on the window. When you turn back to him, he grabs you by the front of the shirt and you think, this is it, he’s had enough, he’s going to fucking smack you.

But he pulls you close and kisses you hard. His tongue swipes into your mouth, seeking out yours, and he sucks on your lower lip as he kisses you deep, teeth grazing your lips. You freeze up, and then you let him, closing your eyes, even kissing back. It’s… warm, is the best way you can put it. Warm and wet, but with too much teeth, too much something unsaid behind it.

When he stops he looks you in the eye and doesn’t let go of your shirt, his mouth a tense frown, his eyes bright, his brows furrowed; it’s not a look you’ve seen on him before, mild irritation is one thing but he looks on the edge of decking you.

“I’m going to discuss my brother’s funeral with the only other living branch of this side of the family I have.” He says. His face smooths over, but he’s still breathing the same air you are; it’s not the kind of smooth that covers everything he needs it to, either. “His name is Dirk, he’s a few minutes older than me, and I’d been avoiding him halfway around the globe for like a year even before our elder bro died and this funeral had to be arranged.”

You sit quietly, numbly, while he lets go of your shirt and props his arms up behind his head. “So suffice to say, this is going to be complicated and I really, really need you to not make it any more complicated than it has to be, feelingswise. If you can do anything to make it _less_ stressful, I’d actually really appreciate that.”

For a minute there’s more silence between you, broken only by John’s snoring. After that, you lightly prod him in the shoulder.

“What now?” He asks. You hesitate, but you if that kiss was any indication, this is the kind of thing you’re here for, and damnit, you’re going to do it _right_.

You put a hand over his crotch and squeeze, and he actually _laughs._ “Is that your solution to every fucking argument? Skaia must be _wild_.”

“It isn’t.” You say, glancing over at John’s seat again. No movement, but… “I don’t think we should be doing this out here, either.”

He scoffs, and doesn’t move from his seat. Actually, he takes your wrist in one hand and pulls your hand away from the zip of his slacks. He kisses up your fingers, and you’re intensely, painfully aware of how warm his lips are, petal-pink compared to your hand. It’s the most responsive you’ve gotten him besides sleepily jerking you off.

He looks at you like he’s going to strangle you as he presses his mouth to your palm, and you take your hand away and kiss him again. When he breaks the kiss, he looks around as if to make sure nobody’s listening in.

“We’re not doing this here.” He says at last. But he grins as he puts his shades back on. “Wake me up when we’re in Barcelona.”

When you stop reeling, confused and dazed, you've still got another hour and a half to wait.

It somehow feels like the longest fucking wait of your life.


	12. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's porn in this one too, but only at the end-ish.  
> Also I've finally reached 25k words!

The message over the speakers telling you you're about to land is what wakes you up. You hadn't even realized you were asleep until you were jolted rudely from it by the announcement.

For a minute you wonder where you are, before you turn to look at Dave and recall what you'd talked about an hour ago. You glance around self-consciously, but nobody seems to be paying you any attention; there's an expectancy in the air, or the pressure’s getting to your head, but it's directed in places besides you.

You look out the window and it’s  _ obscenely  _ bright; you have to look away unless you want to go fucking blind. Spain is definitely a hundred times brighter and hotter than Scotland, and you haven't even gotten down to really take a look yet. You can sort of squint downwards to take in the view, but it doesn't really give you much to go off of.

Then the plane tilts and your head feels like it's going to explode. Dave wakes up at around this time to you clinging to his hand while your head feels like it's about to explode.

“Holy shit,  _ breathe _ , man.” He laughs, gesturing to his face. “Like this. Open your mouth, deep breaths. You gotta equalize that shit.”

“What the Hell are you talking about?” You wheeze, but he's right; you keep your mouth open and it doesn't make the pressure go away but it makes it somewhat bearable if you keep breathing. “How do you live like this?”

“Practice.” He's still smiling that shit-eating smile that makes you want to smack him. You groan instead. You can feel your breakfast trying to crawl up your throat.

Dave rubs your back as the plane touched down and the gurgling in your gut gets worse, handing you a paper bag when it finally becomes too much.

Your first memory of Barcelona is puking your guts out while a cheery local jingle and the pilot’s voice greet you over the speakers.

~!~

Stepping off the plane on shaky legs, you're greeted by a small crowd at the reception area; less greeted and more nearly lost, really, as people holding up placards try to grab your attention so you can choose them of all the others for a cab or a hotel room.

John and Dave squeeze you through it all and dodge the occasional tourist or fan, though they can't escape them all, and sometimes you even end up in the shots with them.

“I can almost see it now.” Dave grumbles. “They're gonna be calling you the long lost Strider brother or something, or at least my newest boytoy, and I'm gonna have to milk it for all the publicity it's worth. Welcome to your fifteen minutes of fame, Karkat.”

“I could do without people trying to snag locks of my hair.” You admit, it's more of a hassle than the existence you had prior to meeting Dave. 

But you flew, so high the world was a distant blur beneath you, and it was deeply unpleasant and wasn't under your own power, but the thought of it kind of leaves you giddy.

Or you're still air sick. That's more likely.

You're about to say something about the airport being surprisingly dim and comfortable when John butts in like the world’s most happy-go-lucky battering ram.

“I kind of want to do a little sight-seeing before we have to meet up with Dirk, either of you know where we should go first?” He says, leading you two to a door streaming with sunlight. 

“John, I've only been in this world for two months and both of those months were spent where Dave found me.” You let yourself be tugged around, but you do look up at whatever you can. “ _ Everything  _ here is a sight to me.”

“If you start snapping pictures of me, it's coming out of your pay.” Dave quips. You narrow your eyes at the back of his head.

You can't stay pissy for long, though. The heat  _ really  _ hits you once you're out the door, but somehow it's a rejuvenating sort of heat, as long as you take care not to look up. You look at your fingers and you could even swear they were a little less gray, like the sun here is what you needed to be a little more real.

John, though; John balks at it visibly, to the point of making sure to stand under the shade. Dave doesn't seem to have noticed.

“You're so fucking pale, dude, how do you stand it?” John pants, clinging to the scant shadows of a potted tree. “I'm dying of heatstroke where I stand.”

“You come from Seattle, why are you surprised?” You don't know what Seattle is like, but it fades into background noise as the two of them bicker. You shuffle along, peering out at the sun-drenched world in a wonder you didn't think Earth could give you.

The star around your neck, for once, feels a little lighter.

~!~

According to Dave, you'll meet his brother at the hotel. He neglects to tell you when exactly, or that the hotel is at least a dozen stories tall, made of white, carved stone and wrought iron balconies. Flowers and vines hang from pots tied to the railings, bright and beckoning.

The interior is cold again, though. Warmly lit, with wood and tile flooring and dizzyingly patterned rugs and a fountain in the center of the reception area, but you can't really appreciate it when you just want to wander back into the sunlight.

As Dave sits next to you at the edge of the fountain, talking to someone on what you've finally come to know as his phone, John checks the three of you in and it's around now that you feel like kind of a mess, uselessly waiting around and letting things happen to you. 

You were never like this in Skaia, but then, you  _ knew  _ Skaia. You're lost here, in this massive world where three hours will take you to what feels like another world entirely. It leaves you wondering if the visions in Skaia’s portal clouds were just visions of nothing but Earth.

“What's Dirk like?” You ask, more to fill the air than anything else. You're not going to gawk at everything around you like a child, but you're going to fucking lose it if you stay quiet any longer.

He holds up a finger, mutters a little more into the phone and finally puts it away. He just takes a deep breath and looks away from you for a bit, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“I'm gonna go ahead and say sometimes even I don't know.” He says, blowing hair out of his face. “I'll let you decide what to expect when you see him a little way from now, alright?”

“Another thing.” You say, before he can brush it all off. “Why have you been running from him?”

You shouldn't have said that. The look on his face goes from bemused to downright stony, as unreadable as the day you met him. The silence stretches on, until he turns away from you.

“Sorry, you haven't unlocked the backstory content yet.” He says, cracking his neck. “And wouldn't you know it, John’s done checking us in.”

You look up and it’s true, he's walking back to you with a grin on his face and a bellhop behind him. “Did I miss anything good?” He asks.

You glance at Dave. 

“No,” You say. “Not a goddamn thing.”

~!~

Dave also neglected to tell you what the rooms would be like.

You feel like a rat let into a palace, which you may as well be. You felt scruffy and grimy enough downstairs, but the room itself is so nice it makes you scared to touch anything.

Somehow Dave seems displeased by this.

“I asked for the shittiest room, what gives?” He asks John, who's tipping the bellhop and waving him on his way.

“This was the plainest suite they had, dude.” He shrugs as he says it, shutting the door. “I couldn't get them to replace any of the antique furniture with lawn plastic, either, but they at least gave you tacky curtains. Pizza clipart, artifacted to Hell, printed at the lowest resolution and the highest saturation.”

He sounds  _ proud  _ of that.You look at the curtains, bright orange and scratchy-looking, the most incongruous thing in the room. You suddenly feel less out of place. Also more disgusted.

“Dunno why you gotta bring your crappy jaypeg aesthetic to six star hotels, but I know you'd want it this way.” He says, and then something lights up his face. “ _ I _ , on the other hand, don't give that kind of damn about the decor and should go enjoy whatever channels they've got in my room, so I'll see you two later.”

A wink and a finger pistol later, he's disappeared into one of the rooms in the suite and left you pretty much alone with Dave. The silence only lasts a few seconds.

“Don't bother washing up yet.” He says, taking his shades off and carefully folding them onto a side table. You gulp, heavily, oddly nervous despite all the casual sex you'd been having with him for like a month and a half. He looks up at you expectantly and your hands and feet feel like they’re moving on their own.

But with the situation you're in, you don't really begrudge them that. You let yourself fall into the rhythm of it, coming up to Dave and tugging him down by the collar. Not only does he let you, but he bites you when your lips meet, grabs your ass hungrily, and you wonder what you did to get this out of him and if that's a good thing.

You suck on his tongue and pull on his hair, pushing him against the door with your thigh up against his crotch. He groans when you grind against him, and the warmth pooling under your skin, between your legs, that's a welcome distraction after everything.

He laughs, breathless, against your mouth. “Fuck, should've given you some mouthwash first, you taste awful right now.”

“We can deal with that later, you don't have to kiss me if it’s that bad.” And truth be told its  _ embarrassing,  _ reminding you that you threw up earlier. But he quiets himself by kissing your neck instead, and you work on undoing his belt.

“Next time I'll give you some mints for the ride.” He says, guileless, unguarded, between breathless moans as you drag your fingers up his cock. “Next time we'll bring fucking  _ listerine. _ ”

“Shut up already.” You growl. There's a crack in it, in the back of your throat, but at least he doesn't seem to notice how much it stings, talking about next time and knowing there probably  _ will  _ be one, knowing it’s so close to Skaia you'd do it a hundred times over and hope to get home every time.

“ _ Fuck,  _ Karkat,” He moans, gripping your hips as you squeeze his cock and suck on his neck, pull up his shirt so you can leave bites on his chest and hickies on his taut, shivering belly. He laughs breathlessly with each one, pets your hair as you get on your knees.

You look up at him with a purr as you suck on the side of his cock, palming yourself through your own jeans. It helps a little, though mostly it’s just uncomfortable, squeezing yourself through the denim. He tilts his head back and gasps and you suck harder on the tip, grinding it into your tongue. Let him taste  _ that  _ later, you think; and if you're being honest, that's actually pretty hot.

You close your eyes and feel him gripping your hair tighter, trying to thrust into the heat of your mouth. Drool slicks your chin and the taste of him fogs your mind, and you gulp around the head and that's it, you feel him pulse against your tongue as he bites his lip to muffle a shout. His hand in your hair holds you down so even if you'd wanted to you couldn't do anything but take it all.

Just as well that you want to. You gulp thickly, feel his cum sliding down your throat. You're so hard it  _ aches _ .

Sighing, panting, he lets your hair go and you slide off his cock. You're still kneeling when he slides down the door, panting and flushed with his pants around his knees.

“I really, really hope John doesn't need anything in the next hour or so.” You say. Laughing breathlessly, he beckons you closer, and you crawl into his arms and think this would really have been better on the bed.


	13. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super duper late. Also, John gets decked, Roxy and Dirk make references to Karkat being a hooker, and Momlonde is drunk.

It's a little after you finish washing up, after Dave’s had his turn, and you make sure to use as much hot water as you can bear after the time you've spent in that lighthouse. You're sitting on the bed and toweling off your hair one more time, your shirt slightly damp because of your earlier impatience, and Dave is busy with his photos, doing something you can't see on his laptop. 

The silence is companionable enough at least, only broken by the clicking and tapping coming from the keyboard. You feel yourself drifting off.

Of course that means you think of home.

You remember so vividly still, but the longer you spend here, the harder it is to tell if you really remember it or you're remembering dreaming of it. It's hard to believe anyone ever flew in Skaia when you can't and never could. It's hard to prove to yourself it existed when all you have is yourself and a dead star.

Holding it in front of your face, inert and shining dully, it really doesn't look like a star at all. You can't even tell where you held onto it as you fell, or if you could ever hold a falling star’s tail.

You tell yourself, once upon a time…

But you can't finish the story this time; someone's knocking on the door. You blink and sit a little straighter as Dave stops typing and clicking, closes his laptop, and stretches.

Another series of knocks, sharp and fast. “I know you're in there, Dave; thought you said you’d text me when you arrived; I had to find out by tracing your phone.”

“Shit.” Dave stands, shaking himself a little before sprawling back into his seat. “Alright, you got me, I thought I could put it off until I finished my edits at least. Come in.”

The door opens and in walks a distorted image of Dave, sharper and more grim overall. Spiked hair, spiked shades, and a mouth like a papercut, and you think you might cut yourself just looking at him.

“Dave.” He says.

“Dirk.” Dave returns.

You look between them and feel like the tension could strangle you Something passes unsaid between them, though, and Dirk’s entire demeanor softens in a ripple down his body. “Might I ask why you brought a date I've never heard of to the proceedings? I thought I was the gay cousin.”

Dave even smiles, shrugging. “He's not my date, he's the model I found in that nowhere town I was staying in. Blinscraig or something.”

“Hi.” You offer a half-hearted wave.

He looks you up and down, the tilt of his head the only indication he's doing so. His lips tighten. “You brought a prostitute.”

“Oh, well fuck you, too, then.” You actually bristle, looking at Dave. “Was that really fucking necessary?”

“Well I'd have guessed a lucky fan, but you don't have that starstruck look.” Dirk adds. Dave actually  _ snorts _ .

“Come on, man, this is the only decent company I found over there.” Decent isn't the word you'd use, but at least Dave's on your side. “Says he fell from the sky, though, which should tell you something about what that nowhere town was like.”

“A  _ crazy  _ prostitute.” Dirk hums, and you realize he's  _ purposely  _ trying to rile you up. “You had such a dearth of fans in Scotland that you had to pay someone to come along so you wouldn't have to face me alone?”

Doesn't much help your irritation, though; particularly when he turns to Dave to talk about you like you aren't there. “You have such crippling lack of basic fucking manners that you can't talk to the crazy whore like he isn't about five feet away?”

You and your big mouth. It's some kind of blessing that John chooses just then to venture out of his room and look pleasantly surprised to see Dirk.

“Well, looks like we're all here, then!” He says, clapping his hands like this wasn't the most awkward thing you've experienced in the past few days. “Nice to see the family reunion’s underway, should I come back later when you've got all the weird shit ironed out?”

“Actually, there’s still a few people waiting to come in.” Dirk says. You, Dave, and John look at him and then each other. The door is eased open.

Dave groans.

~!~

The important takeaway from that moment is this is the part where you met the Lalondes. 

Their mother Riley, who doesn’t introduce herself, draped herself across the nearest couch in a dramatic swoon as she entered. You could smell the alcohol reeking off her so strongly that you suspect she did that only so she didn’t have to keep standing. You learned her name from Dave, who said “Riley, hey, good to see you,” at her and nothing more while she raised an imaginary toast to him or maybe waved him off, watching the proceedings like a very large, very drunk cat.

The daughters Roxy and Rose walk in after her, or rather, Roxy bounds in before her sister does and practically tackles Dave, smushing his cheeks in her hands and proclaiming, loudly, that she’s never helping him run away again. Rose somehow appears beside you, darkly-rimmed lavender eyes settling on you like a trap snapping shut.

“I wasn’t aware there was another Strider in the family.” She said, before turning her gaze towards Dave. “Or is there something you hadn’t told us about your two-month stay in Scotland?”

Roxy lets go of Dave’s face to examine you and grins. “Nah; looks more like he picked up a hooker.”

You throw your hands up. “Why is  _ that _ the first assumption you have to make? I don’t go out of my way to look like a whore.”

Dave looks up, and without missing a beat, says, “You kind of do.”

“Oh, you-” You take a deep breath, close your eyes, and do your level best not to deck him. You don’t need to antagonize the guy who’s paying for your stay here, after all. Smiling sharply, you look to Roxy and Dirk. “Isn’t there something you’re here for  _ besides _ making assumptions about my working relationship with Dave?”

The atmosphere goes a notch icier than it was a second ago, with their pale, jewel-eyed faces each looking to each other to be the first to bring it up. 

Riley breaks the silence. Her voice slurs slightly, rough with tiredness or grief, as she speaks to her daughters. “Mind your manners, girls; we  _ do  _ have a funeral to plan. Ambrose would have wanted us to treat the occasion sincerely.”

“Hah, no.” Dave sniffs. “No, he really wouldn't.”

~!~

Funeral planning is apparently an affair that can’t take place until the Strider-Lalondes are sprawled across the room on every available raised surface. You and John really don’t need to be there, and with the Lalondes and Dirk around you don’t really want to spend more time in there than necessary, so you take the opportunity to wander, loosely chaperoned and feeling kind of like a pet being led around on a leash.

You say as much and John laughs as you sit with him downstairs in a sunny spot outside a cafe. Just as well that there’s an umbrella shielding him from the heat while your seat is awash in sunlight. You lean back in your chair and watch people pass by as he orders for both of you before you can stop him.

“Don’t worry about it, I just feel weird being the only one eating.” He says, idly wiping his glasses off with a napkin. “Something my dad probably got stuck in my head. He’s the kind of guy who makes sure everyone’s eating at the same time.”

“Hm.” You don’t know what to say to that. Nothing you can think of is going to make it less awkward that you said anything at all, so you lean back and let the sunlight warm your face, red behind your eyelids. John stops wiping off his glasses and puts them back on, leaning on his elbows on the white plastic table.

“So where are you from, really?”

“Hm?” You look towards him, the world gone blue-green all over from your eyes getting used to the red. “What?”

“I asked where you came from.” He repeats. He mutters some kind of thanks to the waiter as a pair of sandwiches and small platter of cookies are placed on the table, along with a pitcher of water and two glasses. He picks up a cookie, dusted with finely-powdered sugar, and pops it into his mouth. “Your accent is like, you don’t talk like you come from… anywhere I know about, now that I think about it. And you don’t look it, either. What far-off place did you come from, and how did you end up where Dave found you?”

You hesitate. Then you smile, bitterly, more a thin press of lips than anything else. “I don’t think you’d believe me.” You say, picking up a sandwich and taking a bite. John shrugs.

“Was worth a shot. Karkat, right?” He eats another cookie. “Sounds  _ almost _ like something I might have heard before, but I’m not nearly as well-travelled as everyone else in the family, so who knows. Come on, I promise I’ll do my level best to believe you.”

He looks at you over the food with his chin resting in his palm, picking at a piece of some leafy vegetable in his sandwich. It’s an open, friendly face, and it’s not like he’s said anything to make you doubt him yet like Dave straight-up telling you you’re insane. Maybe…

You have to brace yourself still, taking a deep breath and pulling the chain over your head so you can show him the star. He looks up at you confusedly. 

“I got dragged into this world by this.” You say. When he looks even more confused, you bite your tongue for whatever insult is brewing in the back of it and explain. “I fell from Skaia because I tried to catch it, it’s a wishing star. And unlike everyone from back home, I can’t fly, so you can guess about how well that went for me.”

“Oh, that’s… pretty sad, actually.” He says, and you have to stop yourself from dropping the chain. You can feel tears welling in the corners of your eyes, heavy and warm, just the  _ relief _ that someone here is someone you can confide in here. You wipe them off before they can fall.

He smiles brightly, disarmingly so. “You should write it down instead of just telling people like me. It’d be a pretty cool novel someday. Or you could make it a screenplay with Dave, he might like getting into fantasy just once. Your delivery’s pretty good, though! Bringing up the necklace as a prop, that helps with the idea, but the way you deliver it sounds a little too… I dunno, like you assume everyone’s heard it all before, already. Not a very good start. Could be polished up, though!”

He takes a sip of water while you stare at him, numb and shocked.

Once the glass is empty, he pushes the cookies towards you. “So where are you  _ really  _ from?”

~!~

“Jesus John, what the fuck happened to you?” Is the first thing Dave says when you meet back at the hotel. John winces, rubbing his cheek where a massive bruise is starting to form where you’d slapped him so hard your hand felt like it was going to crack in half.

“I probably kind of deserved it.” He laughs. “Doesn’t seem like something he wants to talk about.”

“He absolutely did.” You grouse. You still feel cracked and crumbling on the inside, holding yourself together with your arms crossed against your chest. Dave, for his part, raises an eyebrow but ushers John back into the room. The Lalondes and Dirk are gone, but Dave says they’ll be back in a bit. 

“There’s a lot more to planning out what to do with a guy’s ashes than I thought.” He says, running a hand through his hair. He shakes his head. “In the meantime, my agent saw fit to remind me that I’d been invited to a show  _ here  _ like last month, and she accepted without asking me. John, try not to look like you had the shit beaten out of you. Karkat, you’re my date for tonight, so we need to find you something to wear that hasn’t obviously had cum stains washed out of it recently.”

He brushes past you, swearing under his breath, something about her having to give him more warning. You catch him by the shoulder.

“Is this-” You don’t get to finish what you’re asking.

“Sure, whatever, I’ll pay you whatever.” He says. “Just come with me and Roxy so we can get you and me gussied up before six.”


	14. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Karkat's in a dress, because it's pretty and he wants to. Illustration by thedoublepp/papayaparty (thank you so much for it.) [Here it is!](http://thedoublepp.tumblr.com/post/167698891146/that-cantankerous-star-child)

Shopping isn't high on the list of activities you'd expected to end up doing with Dave and his cousin Roxy. Roxy was ecstatic to hear about it, though; likely because Dave bribed her into it by letting her choose something for herself. 

She hasn't gotten to that part yet, though, being that she's busy dressing you like a mannequin.

“Shouldn't you be paying at least as much attention to your cousin?” You ask, as she tosses some kind of sheer, silky thing that's  _ probably  _ a shirt your way where it nearly slips through your fingers. She scoffs as she peruses a selection of shoes held up to her by the shop assistant; the shoes all look pretty much the same to you, drab brown or brightly-polished black, but she examines each of them with the intensity of a jeweler selecting stones.

“Dave's a big boy, he can dress himself.” She says, waving away the assistant before turning to you. She smiles brightly and holds up the shirt she’d tossed your way, looking at you like she'd looked at those shoes. “ _ You _ , on the other hand, are the kind of precious Cinderella Story guttertwink that  _ obviously  _ needs that Ro-Lal trademarked touch to be your true Disney princess self underneath that beat-up sneakers aesthetic you're rockin’ right about now.”

You bristle, flushing at her phrasing. “You don't have to fucking insult me, you can make your point just fine without calling me… Whatever it is you mean by ‘guttertwink’.”

She only smiles like you'd told her a joke, tongue poking out between her purple-painted lips in concentration. Your own mouth curls into a snarl and she lowers her hands, shaking her head.

“None of this is working, you just don't look right in  _ any _ of it.” She mutters, pursing her lips. You sigh and look around at the clothes she's already had you try on, shirts in various colors and constrictingly-stitched suit jackets. You think they probably looked  _ okay,  _ but you probably looked less than comfortable in all of it.

You fiddle with the star as Roxy tosses away her latest attempt, glad that Dave was nice enough to cover it all. Or maybe he just has that much cash to burn; it certainly seems like he has no shortages. You cross your arms and sigh.

“Is there anything with a little more, I dunno, variety?” You ask. Not even out of interest, you just want this to be over. You gesture to the other side of the shop. “There's a whole selection of glitzy, airy shit I'm sure you'd love over there, and I've got enough experience wearing nothing but a fancy curtain that it's probably okay.”

“The gowns?” She mutters, and then a light seems to go across her face, yes wide in realization. She snaps her fingers. “The gowns! You're right! You wait  _ right  _ here, babe; mama Roxy’s gonna make you  _ sparkle.” _

You nearly fall off the little dais she’d been having you stand on when she rushes away from you, murmuring to herself about fabric weights and colors and should there be rhinestones or somthing? You don't quite catch it, sitting on the edge of the dais in your boxers.

“Quick, try this on!” She throws a heap of what feels like satin in your hands, white and soft, with transparent wisps of fabric like frozen breath along the skirt. She beams at you. “We can get it adjusted if it doesn't quite fit. And we should definitely do something about your crappy underwear, too.”

You have no idea what you're doing. She has to instruct you, step-by-step, how to put on the gown and tighten it up around your non-existent waist and hips. You manage it, though, and… It really is like wearing that curtain you wore for Dave, just heavier and less makeshift.

You swish it around your knees a little, feeling the almost liquid weight of it in the movement, and Roxy stifles a laugh. You glare at her. “What? Is this a joke you're not letting me in on?”

“No, no, you're gorgeous.” She smiles, the first really friendly smile you've seen from her, and you relax a little.

Her smile turns devilish. “I just can't wait to see the look on Dave’s face.” She giggles. “When we get the rest of you ready, you're going to  _ wreck  _ him.”

“I don't know how I feel about that.” You say, sizing yourself up in a mirror. It  _ is  _ pretty nice. “But I'm going to trust you a little further with this just because I like the gown.”

Truthfully, you kind of want to see Dave react to this, too.

~!~

Roxy refuses to let Dave see her choices for you until you're back at the hotel, and even then she shells out some of her own cash for the finishing touches that she drags you halfway around the block for with strict instructions to Dave not to follow or peek or any shit like that.

(“What, like you're gonna turn me to stone with the unbridled blech-factor of your un-madeup face prior to all of us going in like our pajamas or something?”

“You bet that plush rump you've assigned me to pretty up that I'll just turn you to goddamn stone if you so much as get the noggin-meats in the direction of peeking.”

“That's fair.” And he went to get his own clothes ready.)

You get shoes with a little extra heel (just a little, you show her you don't have the balance for any higher when you nearly break your leg) and even some fancy, lacy lingerie that goes under the dress. She didn't bother with a bra, which you're thankful for, because even stretchy and silky as it is, you feel incredibly exposed wearing both the panties and the dress.

“He's not going to see it, why bother?” You ask her, as she brushes your hair into something halfway-presentable, paints your lips with some kind of clear, sweet-smelling stuff, and considers doing something vaguely horrifying to your eyelashes but which she decides against because of something you're too distracted by the  _ torture device  _ she's holding to really pay attention to.

“You’ll thank me later about the sexy underwear. Trust me a little more, okay?” She says, painting her nails and then dipping them in ice water. She blows on them a little and grins again, before finally taking a deep breath and calling to the door. “Yo, Dave! My  _ mystical magykks  _ of babe-o-mancy are now under effect, come see!”

You stiffen in your seat as the door opens, turning your head to see Dave coming in.

The both of you pause.

You can tell he's eyeing you up as much as you are him. This is the first time you've seen him in any kind of actual formalwear, and whatever his suit’s made of looks sinfully soft and also the kind of red you only expect to see in arterial spray. It makes him look even paler, the contrast almost too much.

It's incredibly silly looking.

(He kind of makes it work, a little.)

He doesn't lower his shades, but he glances from you to Roxy. “Is this some kind of joke on your part, because I can tell the tailor there was a clerical error and  _ you're  _ paying.”

Roxy squawks in offense. You find yourself oddly at a loss for words.

Dave shakes his head and takes off his shades to wipe them on his sleeve. “Come on, Rox, we have like an hour to get going; what the Hell are you even playing at right now?”

“She isn't playing at anything.” You cut in. Dave looks back to you and you look him right where you approximate his eyes are. “She really isn't. I actually  _ like  _ what I'm wearing, and it isn't so different from what I wore for you before. Besides, you’re not exactly looking the part of an esteemed gentleman in whatever the Hell that’s supposed to be.”

He laughs, a sharp, incredulous  _ hah _ , running a hand through his hair and taking a breath. He looks you up and down with his lips between his teeth before letting out his breath again, and when he straightens up and adjusts his tie, he's most of the way composed again.

“Alright.” He says. “Alright, deal’s a deal, and you look pretty…  _ okay.  _ You look pretty okay, all things considered. It's not like I haven't pulled more tasteless shit out of my ass to these shows before.”

“Understatement of the  _ century.”  _ Roxy snorts, with all the grace of an attacking waterfowl. She rounds on him much the same way you'd imagine attacking waterfowl just might. “Just admit I made your date into the hottest shit you ever gandered a bulb at and let’s go! It takes like half an hour to get to the address, right?”

“Right.” Dave is still looking at you; it feels like he's savoring the sight as much as he might be repulsed by it and you don't know which it is he's really going for. “Right, yeah. We got a driver, right?”

“We got my mom.” Roxy says. Dave sputters, which  _ you  _ relish, and Roxy snorts again. “I'm kidding, man; she’s coming along, but I don't plan on kicking it in Barcelona all the way to the morgue. Get your panties out of that knot.”

He shakes his head, and then everything from the neck down like he wants something off him. “Don't say shit like that, I think you bleached my fucking leg hairs.” He says, pushing his shades back up his nose.

Regardless, it seems that he’s accepted your choice of eveningwear when he shrugs and does a little bow, offering you his arm. You’re not too keen on it after that display, but you take hold of him all the same, thinking distantly in the back of your mind, if  _ anyone _ calls attention to you, it  _ better _ be as his date.

The elevator ride is so frosty you almost expect to see your breath hanging in front of your face. Roxy hums all the way down, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she readjusts her eyeliner and ignores you and Dave in such a way that she  _ has _ to be doing it on purpose. She  _ absolutely _ knows she’s forcing you two to talk to each other, or something.

So you don’t. Neither does Dave. It seems to be the right decision at the time.

The same car you’d stepped into this morning awaits you outside the entrance of the hotel, and maybe you feel a little more exposed, but it’s nothing new. The liquid weight of the gown is more sure around you than the curtains were, with how they were falling off your shoulders back in the lighthouse even without the wind. Your heels click satisfyingly against the tile.

You feel like you can actually deal with this, when you enter the car between Roxy and Dave.

You still twist the chain between your fingers as you watch out the window, ritzy neighborhoods and streetlights and people flashing by the tinted windows. It’s all mostly silhouettes and signs, blurred by the music playing from the speakers.

You finally can’t take it anymore.

“Where are we going?” You ask, pulling the chain tight around the back of your neck. Dave snaps out of the daze he was apparently in while watching the window like you were. He wipes a little drool off his chin with the corner of his shirtsleeve, poking past the sleeve of his jacket, and Roxy smiles like she’s never going to stop smiling.

“Apparently a show I signed up for and forgot about.” Dave says. “And it’s thanks to the wonders of technology that I didn’t have to  _ develop _ any photos for it. I would have  _ preferred _ to, but when you’re short on time, right?”

You blink. You almost want to say what you’re obviously thinking, before he beats you to the punch. 

“That’s why you’re my date, by the way.” He says, coolly enough that you kind of hate it. 

The car stops and the driver steps out. “We’re here!” Roxy chimes, as the door opens at the steps of a white, windowed building  _ swarming _ with people. 

You gulp.


	15. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of those chapters that I myself didn't expect. Oh boy.

Nobody knows your name, but they know Dave’s, and being at his side and in his photos is apparently good enough.

Roxy manages to slink away, or maybe she has to deal with the same thing in another corner of the exhibit. You have to stifle a sense of panic rising in the pit of your gut, chatter in a language you don't understand filling your ears. In the eyes around you, you're reflected with a kind of hunger.

Some of them don’t bother to hide this, even when they speak directly to you. They smile and murmur, measuring, watching how you stand with Dave. You're not sure what they're hungry for, or if you're not just imagining it.

It's pretty clear no matter how nicely dressed you are right now that you're out of your depth. Your hand tightens at Dave’s elbow until he grimaces at you and makes you let go.

“It's just like the plane ride except we’re not making out, fucking  _ chill. _ ” He hisses. You purse your lips together and breathe quietly through your nose until you feel slightly lightheaded. Dave flattens his expression as someone approaches and chats him up about something you don't entirely catch until the conversation turns to you.

“Your model, yes?” She purrs, a glass of white wine in one hand swirling slowly before she takes a sip and turns to you. “Beautiful, but such a fierce face. What upsets you so in those pictures?”

You've told your story enough for one day. You smile at her instead, and follow Dave’s lead. “You're free to make an educated guess, but I can give you a hint.”

“A lover?” She takes another sip. “What story behind those photos is there?”

You shrug. “Ask the photographer.”

And she turns back to Dave and you breathe a little easier, but the cords of the dress still feel like they're digging too hard into your ribs. You pick a glass of fruity-smelling stuff off a nearby waiter’s tray just to have something to do with your hands.

You can at least tell yourself you held some kind of conversation, even if it was just to shunt it off to Dave. You sip your drink and look around, wondering where it is your photos are being displayed.

You are instead distracted by the arrival of another Lalonde.

Mostly because Riley takes your glass from your hand, takes a sniff, and laughs brightly before tipping it back in a single gulp.

“Thanks, babe; I  _ really  _ needed that.” Her eyes are shot through with red and her voice is hoarse with alcohol or crying, you can't tell. She wraps an arm around your shoulders, facing Dave. “Do you mind if I borrow your date? I'll cover the cost.”

You go rigid in her grip. Dave shrugs and you kind of want to strangle him, but you hiss at Riley instead, your fingers coming up to peel her off. Soft as she seems, she has a grip like fucking  _ iron _ , and she starts moving before Dave can actually say anything.

You're a little ways off from Dave when she stops, just out of earshot, when she lets go of your shoulders only to turn you to face her. Her face goes grave, and you realize she looks almost exactly like Roxy, but older and sadder, her eyes a more vivid pink.

Almost red.

“It's been so long.” She says, looking right at your face and yet  _ not  _ at the same time. Her lips quiver. “Darling, baby. When did you fall?”

You stare at her and your heart nearly stops, your throat closes up. Somehow you manage to croak the words, “Two months ago,” and just the look on her face is enough to confirm the treacherous thought that’s hooked into the back of your mind now. You gulp and it doesn’t do anything for the knot in your throat, just makes you more aware of it being there, all the things you want to say and can’t figure out where to start from.

She cups your face in her hands and brushes her thumbs under your eyes. “Fucking  _ sucks _ , doesn’t it?” She says; it looks like she’s struggling to keep that smile on her face, and you’re in a room full of people you don’t know so you’d  _ really _ hate to have a breakdown. “I miss flying. There aren’t many ways to fly  _ here _ , and it’s just not the same. I’ve told my Roxy and Rosey about it, but it’s just not the same, you know? They don’t believe a word I said. And Ambrose is dead, so that’s one less Skaian here that I can talk to.”

She lets go of your face and you almost lose your balance, clutching yourself, breathing hard as you try to get yourself back together. She believes you. She’s just like you, and the very thought that it’s not just a story, that you’re not the only one, thoroughly pains you.

“How did,” You gulp, try not to dig your nails into your palms lest you slice them open and have to explain. “What happened? You could fly, how did you end up here?”

“It happens more than you might guess.” She looks distant, another glass of pale liquor in her hand. The waiter she’s taken it from slinks away and you kind of wish he’d stayed just a few seconds longer so you could have a drink, too. She frowns, looking into her glass. “I see that star around your neck. You made the same mistake, didn’t you? Got too attached to having a wish, anything you could possibly want and it’s yours if you can just hold on.”

She chuckles, wraps an arm around your shoulders again and guides you across the floor with her lips on the rim of her glass. “Aw, fuck, I’m probably going to make a mess of your dress. You’re so pretty, too; and you’re young and sweet and you’ve still got the star. Maybe you’ll find a way back. Me, I have a life here now. Will you write me if you go?”

She presses a kiss to your cheek and shoves you away. You almost slip in your heels, staring after her as she gestures at the display behind you. “Don’t answer that.” She says, smiling sharp and sad and obviously still drunk. “Don’t write me. If you find a way, take me with you.”

And she drifts away from you and you think, that was another Skaian. That was what might happen to you.

You feel like you’ve been chewing glass. You loosen your hands and look at the dark crescents in your palms where your nails have dug in, and you turn around to look for Dave. But not before you finally see his display, the work he’s been doing with you this whole time.

Did Riley mean to put you here, right in front of it? Because it’s fucking cruel of her to do so.

You stare up at the picture she’s left you in front of, blown up huge and bright and so detailed you can see your own eyelashes reflecting the morning light like they’re on fire. Or maybe Dave added that in; he certainly added in the soft, gauzy circles of light in the corners of the image, like waterdrops seen through glass too close to your face.

And at first you don’t notice, but he definitely added in a pair of translucent wings. They blend into the clouds at first, but the longer you look the more you can pick them out. Crystalline and pale, more like frost and smoke than the actual clouds, extending from your shoulders outwards. One of them is torn to pieces, shattered and strewn across the floor.

“There you are.” He says, when he finds you standing frozen in front of the portrait. It’s one of the few where you’re looking directly at the camera, glaring into the lense; probably one of the ones where he insulted you somehow. “What did she want you for?”

“Just to talk.” You say. He nods and looks up at the portrait and you think you’re probably pulling the same face as you were in the lighthouse that morning, where you look like you want to tear out his throat with your teeth. You curse under your breath.

He glances to you. “Hm?”

Your voice shakes, cracks even. “I said, are you making fun of me? Are you seeing what you’ve put in front of me here?” He at least has the decency to look dumbfounded, but you’re only getting more livid from it. “Wings. You gave me wings.  _ Broken _ wings, after I told you how I got here, and you’d been telling me all this time you didn’t believe a word.”

“Karkat, just because I took a little inspiration here doesn’t mean it’s real.” He shrugs. “But you’re right, the wings were probably kind of highschool emo, maybe I should have done something less bullshit with it. The bokeh effect works for it, at least.”

You sob, a small, sudden noise that actually makes him stop talking. You cover your mouth and close your eyes, feel tears roll down your cheeks. You told yourself you wouldn’t cry, damnit. This is pathetic.

“Get me out of here.” You mutter through your fingers. “Please. I can’t- I can’t fucking look at this. I’m sorry.”

“Are you crying?” He looks closer at you and you resist the urge to punch him in a room full of people. You feel like you could crawl out of your own skin when you hear the little intake of breath he makes, barely a gasp, just a too-fast inhale. “Shit, you really are. Okay, I’ve never been the guy to deal with waterworks or whatever, but yeah, I wouldn’t wanna be seen like this either so. Yeah. Shit, I’ll call Roxy and tell her the driver can come back for her.” 

He pulls your hand away from your face, even though you refuse to lift your head, and you’ve gone and made the whole thing awkward, great going, Vantas. He can’t even send you back on your own.

He leads you away from the displays, away from the people. You’re only dimly aware of putting one foot in front of the other, stifling your sobs and leaning against him so he can tell people you’re just sick, it’s no big deal, something in the h’ors-d'oeuvres just not sitting right with you being new to all this.

But he takes you out of the building and back to the car, where you’ve at least stopped crying, stopped ruining your makeup and the shoulder of his suit. You sniff, twisting the expensive fabric of your dress in your hands and at least taking a little comfort from the weight of it.

To your surprise, he leans against you. He doesn’t wrap his arm around you, or try to talk to you, or even really look at you as he instructs the driver to get you out of there, but he’s there. He’s warm and solid and he’s there, even if nothing else really feels like it is.

You think of Riley’s eyes, reddish pink and red-shot. You think of how she mentioned Ambrose, how she implied he was one of you; you think of how long she must have spent here on Earth, to bear adult daughters that have never known what it’s like to fly. You think of the liquor-stink of her breath as she spoke to you, the twist of desperation and despair in your chest when someone finally believed you.

It’s been two months and a few days since you fell from Skaia with a star in hand, learned to be a whore and then a model and got sidetracked from looking for a way home, started losing bits and pieces of it in your own head like a gap in your teeth.

You don’t think you can take much more of this.


	16. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nine more chapters to go!
> 
> They were _supposed_ to bang. Instead we get a quiet moment where they talk about feelings.  
>  Also Dave calls something gay in this chapter.

You practically throw yourself into the room when you get there, pulling your heels off your feet and stumbling against the wall. You can hear Dave in the hall talking to someone on his phone, probably Roxy but you can't be sure; you're too busy trying not to fall apart even further. You've embarrassed yourself enough for one night.

You sniffle, and then sob, and frustratedly push yourself off the wall so you can scrub at your hot, itching face, raw with tears. You hear the door close behind you but you don’t look up until you hear the minifridge open up and Dave comes back with a bottle of water in hand.

He holds it out to you, even pushes it a little towards you when you don’t take it at first. When you wrap your hand around it and twist the cap open to drink, then he talks.

“I’m not good with the whole therapy thing.” He says, taking off his shades to polish the lenses; they’re spotless right now, but he fidgets with them anyway. “This sounds like it’s going to be one of those things that’s gonna keep coming up, though, so I may as well put some of the shit Rose has put me through to good use.”

He puts his shades back on and walks further into the room, sitting on your bed and patting the spot beside him. “Not really a dramatic talking couch or whatever, but it’ll do. Tell me what’s up.”

You shake your head and take several more gulps of water until your chest feels like it’s going to bust open from the lack of air. When you gasp and cough as soon as you get the bottle away from your mouth, it’s mostly empty. You look up at Dave.

“I can’t.” You say. Your voice is still hoarse from sobbing, and you twist the bottle in your hands. You shake your head and force down another sob before it can come up properly, force down the tears that threaten to cloud your vision. You press the still-cool plastic to your face and pace, trying to focus a little on the feeling of the thick carpet between your toes. 

Now you’re just getting pissed, though, just thinking about how you got here. You swallow around the lump in your throat and turn to face him. “I’ve told you over and over about the whole thing; about Skaia, about the star, about how I fucking got here. And you’ve said over and over again that you don’t believe me, and nobody I’ve told has believed me until tonight; can you guess why?”

“I can.” He says, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “But you’re going to want to elaborate anyway, because I don’t actually know what Riley said to you.”

“Riley.” You bite your lip, tasting the fruity gloss Roxy so painstakingly painted on. “She’s a Skaian, too. She told me back there, even pointed out the star; she and your brother-”

You don’t know how you expected him to respond, but it wasn’t with a loud groan and his head tilted back like you’d physically pained him with that statement. He tilts his head back down and rubs his temple, grimacing, and then he laughs the way someone laughs at a funeral, like he doesn’t know how else to react to what you’ve told him.

“I should’ve known that sounded way too familiar.” He says. “Skaian, right; Riley Strider-Lalonde herself is one of her own fairytales as she’s told her daughters about. I remember now, thank you, though I don’t recall her ever getting published like Rose did. I don’t know what she’s doing dragging Bro into this mess after he’s dead and they’re going to scatter his ashes in a few days, either; maybe it’s her way of dealing with grief. Look at that, y’all; Ambrose Strider is ascending to heaven-I-mean-Skaia.” He rubs his face and you gawk at him before he gets rid of whatever mirth was on his face and looks at you darkly.

“Fairytales.” You repeat, almost growling. “That’s all my entire life is to you?”

“I’ve been hearing Rose bitch about her mother going on about Skaia since she and I were thirteen, man. It’s really hard to believe that kind of thing when your cousin who’s also one of your only friends has a delusional, alcoholic mother that spouts the exact same shit.” He bites his lip and turns his face away from you, to an empty spot on the wall. The silence is crushing.

You clench your fists and walk up to him, and you stand in front of him  _ wanting  _ to hit him but you can’t bring yourself to lift your hands from your sides. You can hardly bring yourself to speak when you do. “Did you ever consider, even once, that someone who’s never heard of you or your family or whatever  _ isn’t _ trying to make shit up? Skaia is  _ real _ , Dave; I could tell you more about it than she probably  _ has _ .”

You’re not lying. For how long she’s been here, it’s amazing she can remember Skaia at all. You shudder, and Dave looks up at you over his shades, lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. He shakes his head and presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

“There’s just no way, man.” He says. When he looks up at you again, he looks weary. “Look, I’d love to believe all this high-fantasy otherkin shit, but there’s just way too much I’d have to suspend to believe in it.”

You stand there, dumbly, before finally sitting beside him with your head in your hands. You've cried too much to keep going already, but it’s hard not to want to.

To your surprise, he pulls you against his side, gently tipping you against him with his arm around your shoulders. It kind of reminds you awkwardly of your earlier interaction with Riley, but you let him hold you anyway, let his warmth seep through your skin while he rubs your back.

“So I still don't believe you.” He says, blowing hair off his face. “This is gonna be the cheesiest chicken-soup-for-the-soul shit I've ever said in my life, probably, but.”

You don't look up at him, instead mumbling through your fingers. “But what?”

He sighs. “What if just. Like yeah, being a sky person is a pretty cool deal but you're not  _ up there  _ right now, right?” He holds you a little tighter, his hand even coming up to run through your hair, smoothing out the curls before the hair springs back into place. “What if you just let it go?”

“I’ll forget.” You say. “Just like that. If I don’t keep reminding myself, I’ll forget where I came from and who was there. _ Everyone _ who was there, and I’ll end up like Riley and probably your brother.” You curl your fingers, nails digging into your skin. “I won’t last here, I  _ know _ that. I’m already starting to forget bits and pieces, when I go to sleep and when I wake up and sometimes even in the middle of thinking about it. It’s just.  _ Gone _ .”

Your palms are getting wet again, your voice coming rougher. “It’s like it never happened, like I dreamed it all or I made it up half-asleep. Do you know what that’s like? There’s no way you can get that. People don’t just go telling you your entire life never fucking happened.”

He’s quiet and thoughtful before he withdraws his arm. He doesn’t touch you again, but he leans back enough that the bed dips a little, probably staring at the ceiling as he speaks.

“Yeah, pretty much.” He says. “You’re right. People don’t say I dreamed my whole life. People say my life is a dream, but that’s not the same thing, is it?” The bed bounces a little as he gets up and walks over to the minifridge again, taking out another bottle of water and pressing the cold, wet surface to your upper arm.

You let go of your face and take the bottle, but you don’t drink, just holding it in your hands as he goes on. “I don’t know what you’re going through and I don’t think I’m the guy that can help you through it, but what I’m saying is, if you’re not there, well. You don’t have to  _ forget _ everything; Hell, I’m not about to forget any of the shit Bro put me through just because he’s fucking dead. But I’m not going to let it eat me alive forever.”

You look at him, watching him as he loosens his tie a little and mutters under his breath. “It’s not the same as what you’re going through, whatever it is, I don’t fucking know; but you gotta. You gotta figure out what you wanna do from here.”

You actually chuckle, humorlessly, as you twist open the new bottle and take a sip. “You’re  _ really  _ fucking bad at comforting people.”

“Well, excuse me that I’ve never had the opportunity to have a heart-to-heart with anyone who didn’t want to pick apart the inside of  _ my _ head.” He snorts. “I didn’t say I could make you feel better or anything. I’m just. I’ll be here if you can figure out anything I can help with, yeah?”

You look down at the water in your hands and take another gulp, swishing it around the inside of your mouth before finally swallowing it down. “That’s probably the most sincere thing you’ve said in the entirety of however long I’ve been around you.” You say.

He huffs. “I know, I’ll probably have to work on being even more callous and unresponsive to make up for it.”

“No,” You say, and gulp when you see him watching you from the corner of his eye. You switch the bottle between your hands before twisting the cap back onto it and actually looking back at him. “I think I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t know what the fuck I’m…  _ we’re _ going to do about the whole thing with me being stuck here, but if you want to help me through it, I need to know it’s not just a game to you. Not like when you were asking me about Skaia before.”

He looks up at the ceiling again and goes quiet, and you just lean against his arm, resting your head on his shoulder. You can feel his breath in your hair. “I want to be able to trust you.”

“Sounds gay.” He says, but you feel his arm curling around your waist. “What the Hell, I’ve already gone way over the gay threshold with you and now I’m smack dab in Yes Homo territory, I may as well. I can probably live with that.”

You mumble something even you’re not entirely aware of as he strokes his fingers over your side, smoothing over the fabric of your dress. When you open your eyes again, it’s because he’s moving his hand lower, skimming over your thigh.

“This really isn’t a professional relationship, is it.” He murmurs into your hair.

You put one of your hands over his fingers, feel him twitch a little from how cold your hands still are. “It doesn’t have to be.” You say, pulling away just enough to look up at him. “It was barely professional when we started; who knows what the fuck it’s supposed to be now.”

For a while you just stay like that, practically falling asleep against him. Your face still feels a little itchy, a little dry, but you’ve pretty much stopped sobbing. You still feel like too much is coming away too fast, but you let him hold you and let yourself consider what it might be like to stay like that a while longer.

“Hey.” You look up at him as he takes off his shades and you can see yourself just barely reflected in his eyes, distorted and red. “You’ll get the hang of this, really.” He says, a quiet promise, or a wish.


	17. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut scene because I'm running low on days and word count, and also because I meant for there to be one in the previous chapter.

There’s a moment of quiet that has the two of you looking into each other’s eyes like in your favorite movies, and you kind of wonder what he sees in yours besides tears and sticky lashes. It’s no surprise that you lean up to kiss him after a few seconds of that stifling silence; he was waiting right there for you to take that chance, slightly parted lips and the hesitating way he was about to say something that might have ruined it all.

It’s like that first time you kissed him, in a lot of ways, where he freezes up and relaxes into it. But it’s different, too; he sighs into your mouth this time, and his hands come up to cup your face again, fingers in your hair as he kisses back and even pushes forward when you try to withdraw to breathe. 

He lets you breathe for a second before closing the gap again and you moan against his mouth; you find yourself nibbling his lower lip, and heat flushes your skin wherever his fingers wander or you hear him sigh against your mouth. 

You can’t understand a word and you don’t care. All you’re really aware of is how much you hunger for more and hunger for  _ him _ . 

It’s strange to think that only minutes ago you were cursing him out, but then, it was maybe an hour ago that you were reaffirmed in knowing you hadn’t dreamed Skaia, and minutes ago that you figured out what he’d been missing, what  _ you’d _ been missing, about him. 

For now, you can drown it out in his touch, like you did when you first asked him. It stings to think about how little you’ve actually managed to move forward with him. 

It’s still different enough that you can tell yourself it’s better when he bites your lower lip, not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough that you can’t get away without saying something. That helps, the way it grounds you in his arms, in his touch, in his breath and the nonsense spilling from his mouth. You moan again and tilt your head back so he can get his tongue deeper into your mouth and shut the both of you up; and you hope against hope it shuts your mind up, too.

He laughs as his fingers skim across your hips and you realize the dress you’re wearing is mostly bunched up at the tops of your thighs now; when did he do that? He breaks the kiss to suck on the spot under your ear and you shiver.

“I feel like I’ve probably ruined some plan you had.” He murmurs into your skin, nails scraping at the lacy stuff passing itself off as underwear you’re wearing. “Did you pick these out hoping to get lucky?”

“I didn’t even pick them.” You’re also  _ intensely  _ aware of how hard you are, and how the panties aren’t holding up as well as they should, especially when his palms are warm and rough on your sides under the dress and you just want the stupid things  _ off _ , no matter how much you enjoy the silky skirts against your legs. You make something that sounds like a whine when he withdraws his hands and kisses your neck, your fingers clutching at the lapels of his jacket while he tries to unlace the dress from behind.

“Fucking- this is like a bra but  _ worse _ .” He says. It’s not long before he gives up on the tangles of lacing and gets back to kissing you. You growl into his mouth, urging him on as he finally has enough of just making out and gets up. Your hands slide right off the smooth fabric of his jacket and he undoes the buttons and just shrugs it off before pulling you right up off the bed.

You almost stumble against him; did you really drink that much at the art show? You don’t think you did, and you’ve been mostly lucid until now. You’re probably more dazed from how he’s suddenly the responsive, insistent one, and all you have to do is follow along for once.

But you’re never one to just let that happen, are you? You move with him until he gets you standing and then you crush your mouth to his again, your hands on his hips with your fingers digging into the curve of his back. 

He grunts and you feel his hands around your wrists as he pushes you until your back hits the wall. The suddenness of it behind you makes your heart beat faster, your fingers grasping at nothing as he pulls his mouth away from yours.

Your eyes flutter open, blinking away the dark you’d been pretty content to let engulf you until now. He’s so close you can feel him panting, and his hands are still around your wrists. You swallow dryly and lick your lips, and his eyes follow the movement of your tongue.

You feel his hands loosen their grip on your wrists, but you keep yours at either side of your head, against the wall, as he trails his fingers down your skin. You feel another shiver up your spine from that, tingles of sensation spreading outwards from the imaginary lines he’s leaving on your arms.

It’s not enough, and he knows that, and  _ you _ know that. It’s maddeningly careful compared to how he held you earlier. But you wait because in his exploration is probably some kind of purpose; you’re at least hoping there’s purpose, because he’s going to drive you fucking crazy trying to be sexy when all he’s doing is being a tease.

“You’re really going to disappoint me at this rate.” You grumble. That cocky little smirk comes up again and you wish he’d take the bait and let you bite the look off his face. Though you think, as his hands smooth down your sides to gather up the skirt of your dress again, you still win, he’s still sort of doing what you want.

You should probably still encourage him, and you finally let your arms down to drape them around his shoulders, looking down between the two of you as he pushes the fabric of your dress to the side. You can see the thin fabric of your panties now, strained by your cock, practically see-through. He wraps his hand around you through the fabric and you gasp.

You let one arm off his shoulders so you can fumble with grabbing at his pants. His belt is too difficult for you to deal with on your own, especially with how he's got the two of you positioned. He actually  _ laughs _ , which makes your cheeks burn, but he nuzzles at the side of your neck again and maybe it's not so bad.

"Just hold onto me." He says. He drops your leg and your skirt but keeps his thigh right up against your crotch, and you're weirdly mesmerized by his long-fingered hands as he undoes his belt buckle and pulls his pants down, just enough that you can see the shadowy bulge if his cock through his shorts. 

The contrast with what you're wearing is... strange, to say the least, but not without its appeal. He seems to think the same thing; laughing a little to himself in quiet huffs of air. 

"I feel like I shouldn't go any further, you just look too good like this." He says, running his fingers just along the strip of skin between your dress and your lingerie. "Half-naked and waiting for a good dicking is a better look for you than any of the juvenile bullshit I could come up with for that art show."

You would answer him, but that would just distract you from what you  _ really  _ want right now. You focus on grinding against him instead, drinking in the way he gasps and digs his nails into your thighs. 

"Shut the fuck up, already." You say, and it feels so  _ good  _ to say it like that after biting it back for so long, after holding back all the venom in it that you'd felt until now.

And the best part is, he just lets it happen. You growl and grind into him again and he moans, though the end of it curls off into a laugh. 

"Goddamn," He breathes, shaking his head and finally just reaching down and  _ ripping  _ your panties off. It's not a surprise that it happened, they were flimsy as all Hell, but you're still a little stunned that he could ruin something so nice with such ease.

You kind of want him to do something like that to you, that kind of disregard for how delicate you might  _ look _ . You  _ want  _ it rough from him, and you're just about ready to start clawing down his back and demanding it.

"Come on," You growl, bare flesh against him while he still fumbles to get his underwear out of the way. When he finally does get the fabric out of the way, you're almost ready to push him away and ride him on the bed when he pins you again.

You would complain, but he's got his fingers in your mouth, pinning your tongue in place as he gathers as much spit as he can. It's not enough, it's not  _ nearly  _ enough, but you're in a hurry and it's still better than going in dry so you lave his fingers with as much spit as you can before he pulls them out and hurriedly gets them under you.   
  
You  _ hiss _ , gasping, grabbing at his shoulders, when he pushes them into you. 

" _ Fuck _ ," You mutter, resting your forehead on his shoulder. "Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ , easy down there, we had a perfectly serviceable bed and if you're going to fuck me against a wall you may as well  _ do it right. _ ”

But he mouths at your ear and eases you open while you gasp against him until you're gyrating your hips, wordlessly begging for more. You've pretty much ruined the dress you're wearing; wrinkles aren't going to come out of fabric this nice. 

You're not entirely sure why that's the last thought you have before you're focused entirely on the wet slide of his cock against your taint, closer and closer to where his fingers had been just a second ago. You’re still aching a little from his fingers, but it's going to ache more when he gets in there and you  _ gladly  _ anticipate it.

And then he pushes in, groaning against your ear; your own breath hitches and you tighten up without thinking about it, almost too much. You have to breathe, you have to hold onto him, squeezing around him with your arms and your insides and he mutters before he starts pushing in properly.

It's not like when you were riding him in the lighthouse; you're not in control this time, you're breathless and shivering while he fucks you slowly, but thoroughly, nipping at your shoulder as he tries to quiet himself. You're a little surprised that he's trying to quiet himself at all, considering how much he's saying is still loud and clear to you; variations of  _ fuck _ and  _ oh God _ and  _ it's so warm, fuck, you're so good. _

It shouldn't be getting you going but here you are, rock hard and just on the edge of finishing without even touching yourself. You’re clinging to him with one hand and just gripping the back of his neck with the other, relishing in the ache of him filling you as you match his noises with louder ones. You don’t want it to stop after getting this far, but you’re so close already.

He finishes first. You realize this because he pushes in deep, biting down on your shoulder hard enough that you don’t register it as a bite at first, only as pain and warmth and a wet feeling inside you when he ruts against you just a little more, in just the right place that you grit your teeth again and breathe hard through your nose as you spill over yourself.

You breathe hard, sore in more ways than you care to count, your legs feeling far away. Dave somehow manages to get on the floor without hurting either of you, which is just as well because you don’t really want to think about what would happen if he lost feeling in his legs just then, too.

You wince when you move your arm to wipe cum off your legs, frowning when it only smears it into your stockings. Your shoulder stings, though when you touch it there’s no blood. Dave smiles sleepily at you, cheeks red and hair mussed; you could probably stand to look at him like this more often, though maybe next time you’ll insist on not getting fucked quite so hard, or dressed like this.

You consider that there will almost definitely be a next time. The prospect is less daunting than it once was.


	18. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, it's actually November 30 today, so I'm going to write as much as I can. I'm still going to finish this story, but here's hoping I can do it today; and even if I can't, look out for updates for the first week of December or so! (Because that's hopefully how long it'll take me to catch up if I need to.)

It’s a nice interlude, but it doesn’t last. The next day comes too quickly for your liking, though at least you don’t have to wake up to a cold bed or the urgency of having to take pictures while the sun’s still rising. Instead you wake up slow and warm, surprised to find yourself still in your rumpled gown but under the covers of the bed. You must have dragged yourselves into the bed sometime in the night. It’s certainly better than waking up on the floor.

Dave is beside you, shirtless, one arm curled across his chest and the other under the pillow. Gold light from the window outlines the sharp angles of his face, the point of his nose and the thin lines of his lips, lighting up each eyelash. For a minute or so you just lie there, listening to him breathe and watching the rise and fall of his chest. 

You think over last night and what that must mean, if he really meant it. You think he did, with the way he looked at you more than the way he held you, but morning casts that kind of doubt on things around here. 

Still, you want to believe him. Lying here and waiting for him to wake up, you think you can.

You can't lie here forever, though. You should probably not have slept in the dress you're wearing, either; the fabric is wrinkled to Hell and back, and the straps have dug reddened lines into your skin. You sigh as you pull the covers off yourself and run your fingers over the front, making a face when you come to a patch that feels slightly less smooth than the rest and remember. Right, that, probably isn't going to come out. Shame, with how much you liked this dress.

Dave stirs as you slide off the bed, muffling a groan in the pillow. “Goddamn sunlight being so fucking bright at this latitude, can't it be morning  _ later. _ ” He grumbles, rolling onto his side and blinking slowly at you. His eyes wander up your body and you see a little twitch at the corner of his lip before he actually smiles. “And it looks like you’re up earlier than I am for once; the change of scenery really doing that much good for you, starboy?”

“It surprises me, too, after last night.” You don’t just mean getting fucked, either. You feel dry and your lips are cracked, and when you stand your legs are kind of shaky; you wince when you move a little too fast and aches flare up in your shoulder where he bit you and your ass where he  _ really _ should have used better lube. Dave crawls out of the bed and is in much the same way, and you realize you’ve left long, pinkish lines across his shoulders where your nails had been. 

He whistles when he notices them. “Good thing I had a shirt on or this’d probably be worse than it is right now.” He says, though he very clearly winces when he shrugs. He sits back down and wipes his hands over his face, yawning as he stretches. “What time is it?”

“About half past eight in the morning.” You rub your arms, surprisingly cold; the thermostat must be turned down lower than you could tell in the night. “Do you think anyone else is awake yet?”

“I hope not.” He rolls his neck and sighs before trying to stand again. “And I don’t feel like going downstairs for breakfast, either, so I’ll order. You want first dibs on the shower?”

You’re about to answer when there’s a knock on the door and then it’s flung open anyway and Dave swears. Roxy flutters into the room, eyes bright, hair perfectly styled, and overall way too energetic for this hour of the morning. She grabs you by the chin and plants a wet, smacking kiss on your cheek before turning to Dave.

“So, first off, I am  _ so _ annoyed that you took off without me,” She says, hardly sounding annoyed at all. She grins devilishly. “Secondly, uh,  _ congratulations _ , you lucky motherfucker, although I’m  _ super _ miffed that you couldn’t even get him naked before doing it last night. You know I could hear you out in the hall? Because I could hear you out in the hall. I’m mostly salty about the dress, though; I mean, I know  _ you _ paid for it, but have some respect for the final product, dude.”

You blush darkly, and speak up before you can stop yourself. “Is there a point to this?”

“Oh, hush, baby, I’ll get to it and I’ll be out of your hair and you can bang my baby cousin some more if you like; but right now I’ve got other important things to say.” She turns to Dave, who groans some more.

“I don’t remember you ever getting up this early when we were growing up, did you really have to barge in with a sex cake or something?” He says, fishing around on the bedside table for his shades. He puts them on before continuing. “Couldn’t it wait until after we’ve had something to eat that wasn’t carbs and frosting?”

“I didn’t come in here with a sex cake, but thanks for reminding me.” You feel like you might faint, is she serious? She goes on, laughing in a sort of hum to herself. “Mom’s decided she’s taken a shine to your boytoy- no, she’s not going to borrow him,  _ ew _ \- and also she wants you both to come along while we’re scattering your bro’s ashes.”

Dave glances to you. You shrug in turn, and he looks back at her. “And this makes you so happy because…?”

“It doesn’t.” She grins even wider, white teeth flashing between hot-pink lips. “But it gives me the opportunity to grill him on details about your sex life and embarrass you at our next reunion.”

Dave goes quiet, and then half-heartedly throws his pillow at her. “You have been spending  _ way _ too much time with Rose.” He says, as Roxy cackles and musses your hair.

“Maybe I have, but she’s going to give you  _ so _ much more shit than I am.” You remember Rose and feel a chill go up your spine, lavender eyes like a steel trap. 

Roxy doesn’t seem to notice as she sashays her way out of the room. Before she leaves, though, she stops and hurries back to you, pressing a shopping bag into your hands. The ribbon it’s held up with is silky in your fingers, and she stops you from opening it before you can take a peek.

“For later.” She whispers conspiratorially, and then she’s out.

Dave coughs in the background, and you scratch the back of your head. “I think you might want to take the first shower.” He offers, and tacitly, you agree, as you shoulder open the bathroom door and look at yourself in the mirror.

Your eyes are slightly bloodshot, and your hair is flattened on one side. Your dress is rumpled, and there seems to be a frayed stitch in one of the shoulder straps. The stain in the skirt is blessedly invisible, but you’re not really wanting to risk it, so you scrape as much of it off as you can with your nails. It doesn’t do much, not even when you wet a little tissue and dab at it with that.

It’s still mostly held up, though. And the freshly-fucked look is bound to go down when you’ve had a shower.

You strip out of your stockings and the dress, carefully laying them on top of the toilet lid, and step into the tub. Which wasn’t a great idea without warming the water first, but at least you’re  _ definitely _ awake after the first spray.

~!~

It doesn’t look like you’ll actually get to take a look at the contents of Roxy’s “gift” for a while. As soon as you step out of the shower and let Dave replace you, John comes in while you’re putting your pants on and loudly announces that he didn’t mean to come in like that and also that everyone is waiting downstairs for the both of you.

Much as you wish he wasn’t right, Dirk and the Lalondes really are all downstairs when you and Dave finally make your way there. It looks like nobody planned on staying in Barcelona that long, as it turns out; all of you have your bags ready, and John’s busy at the checkout. When he comes back, he flops onto the couch you’re sitting on while Dave talks to his brother.

You twist the edge of your jacket in your fingers, your mood instantly soured by being near him, but it looks like he’s not much of a morning person anyway so you don’t have to worry too much about that. He dozes on the arm of the couch until Rose prods him into waking up.

“Are we all riding together?” You ask her. She looks at you like she’s calculating exactly what kind of noise your neck might make as she drives something sharp and narrow into it, an impression you try to shake off to no avail.

You have no idea why you get that impression. She’s done nothing threatening to you so far. In fact, she smiles at you, though it’s far from a comforting kind of smile when she does. 

“I can give you a little space and privacy if that’s what you’re asking.” She says. “Though I can't assure you that you'll be able to use it.”

You decide that’s enough of an answer and thank her, though the implication does leave you somewhat discomfited. 

Dave comes to your rescue, shooing her off with something mumbled that she smiles even sharper at, and you have to wonder how loud the two of you were being last night. He hands you a bottle of water and you distract yourself with the coldness of it against your cheek and neck while the lot of you file into a much larger car than the one from last night, Riley up front with the driver, leaving the rest of you in the back.

It’s only when everyone’s seated and the car’s starting to go down the road that you let yourself relax. You’re sitting as the farthest from the Lalonde sisters, but every so often, you catch Riley’s eye in the rearview mirror.

~!~

It’s also thirty minutes or so later that you realize you’re not headed to the airport. You haven’t exactly had the chance to get familiar with Barcelona as a whole, so you have no idea where you  _ are _ going, but the longer you stay in the car, the more it becomes abundantly clear where you’re  _ not _ .

You look around at the people in the car, and besides Dave falling asleep and everyone else either typing esoteric symbols into their phones or doing the same thing, there’s only Riley, Dirk, and the driver really awake. You don’t want to chance Dirk or the driver, but you’ve already spoken to Riley last night, so, she’s pretty much the only direction you can go to get any clarification here, isn’t she?

You lean forward in your seat and clear your throat, quietly at first, looking around and feeling kind of stupid. You do it again a little louder and hear Riley humming to herself.

“... Mrs. Lalonde,” You start, but she makes a more drawn-out noise that you recognize kind of like the groaning noises Dave makes in the morning. When you frown, she laughs, quietly, mouth closed but eyes trained on you.

“I’m sorry, that was mean.” She purrs. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear when you make a face at her, and then turns in her seat to tuck some of your hair behind your ear even when you balk from her touch. “I’m being silly, sweetheart.” She says.

“Um.” It takes a moment for you to remember what it was you were going to ask. “Where are we going?”

She looks somber again, sighing dramatically. Loudly, too. You look around at the other occupants of the car but they’re pretty clearly either asleep or  _ really obviously _ ignoring her. When a minute passes that she doesn’t answer you, you lean back in your seat and tuck yourself into your jacket.

_ Then _ she answers you.

“We’re finally going to scatter Ambrose’s ashes.” She says. Rose eyes her bitterly, but she goes on. “And we’re going to do it where he and I fell.”


	19. intermission 2, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a hard chapter to write, for a lot of reasons. I'm really happy to be so close to the end, though!
> 
> Having some trouble with italics and such, but I'll fix that when I get home.
> 
> EDIT: Italics work now!

_ Yesterday... _

You are now Dave Strider, and you just want this conversation to be over as fast as humanly possible.

Right now you’re  _ trying _ to have a reasonable discussion with some family members about what to do with your bro’s ashes, but that’s mostly being waylaid by one Riley Lalonde stopping the conversation every two minutes or so to interject about the past or wail dramatically about the guy, or insist on having his ashes scattered in this specific fountain in the godforsaken Spanish countryside. 

Well, you  _ are _ in Spain, but you hadn’t exactly planned on staying in Spain longer than it took to get wasted with your brother and your sort-of boyfriend. You hadn’t factored in the Lalondes and you kind of regret that. You honestly don’t understand why she does this, either; you’re aware they had some history, but you can’t imagine your bro being anything less than a massive, incomprehensible douche.

“You remember the first time he let you visit us, Dave? I remember when you first wanted to visit Rose. He had to find out by going through your messages. You should have just told him, you know; I think it’s one of those things you boys could have talked about. He would have been so happy to know you wanted to reconnect with us.”

You could say it’s getting on your nerves a little.

“Riley, your heart’s in the right place, but my bro was a sociopath who probably got off on traumatizing me into suspecting poison in everything that wasn’t in a sealed plastic bag.”

“That’s not,” She pauses, screwing her face up a little as she tries to put together some kind of sound argument probably. “He wasn’t like that. He liked you best. He wanted you to come over so someone else could tell you about Skaia, didn’t he?”

You could say it’s getting on your nerves a  _ lot. _

“He never mentioned it.”

Did you mention she’s also drunk right now? She’s also drunk right now, like, absolutely fucking pickled. She’s outclassed only by a barrel of slowly-marinating cucumbers, or possibly the entire rice wine industry of South Korea. You’d be amazed at how much alcohol she’s imbibed already, considering it’s maybe ten in the morning, but also you’re kind of embarrassed to be in the same room as her.

“He never shut up about it when he was around.” She goes on, as if you hadn’t said a word, or as if she’s trying to overwrite it. She sniffles, and sobs, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her shirt. “You can’t forget something like that, he’d be the one trying to find a way back every few days. He was the one who kept trying to figure out a way to fly  _ here.  _ I can’t believe he wouldn’t talk about it.”

“He barely  _ talked. _ ” She’s a sweet woman, really, when she’s somewhere closer to the vicinity of sober. You pity Rose and Roxy having to live with her; from what you hear, she’s even less gracious when she’s back home. The atmosphere is so awkward in here that you half expect, half hope, something comes up like John busting in with an ill-timed pun.

“I’m pretty sure Dave’s got more of a handle on this one than we do.” Roxy either doesn’t have a sense for that kind of thing or just decided to take the metaphorical bullet. “Can we have an actual discussion about where to put his ashes now? Please?”

“That’s what I’m  _ trying _ to tell you, if you would just  _ listen- _ ” 

You cut her off. “I vote we dump him in the trash, where he belongs.”

She sobs harder. Makeup runs down her face, as does a little snot. Now you feel like the bad guy, and you  _ know _ Bro was a monster, so that really says something about what a pushover you are on the inside, doesn’t it? It only serves to annoy you further, really get in there with how much you don’t want to be here. It was bad enough when you thought it’d just be Dirk.

“Listen, mom, we only planned to be here for a few days.” Rose picks up a box of tissues from the table beside her like she’s picking up a rat by the tail, handing the whole box to her mom with about as much distaste. “We  _ definitely  _ hadn't planned to go anywhere as far as where you're insisting, and besides, shouldn't it be up to  _ his  _ family where his ashes are scattered?”

Riley blows her nose into a tissue, reaching for another one even before she finishes. She hiccups as she speaks, “I think I've known him- known him long enough to- to have a say.” She sniffles. “But I suppose you're right, I should leave it to his boys, who weren't even there when he- when-  _ you know. _ ” She can't even bring herself to finish it, practically stuffing tissues up her nose.

“I really do hate to contest you on this,” Dirk pushes his glasses up his nose, but you know he’s looking at  _ you. “But  _ Riley is right, it’d be more economical to scatter the ashes while we’re here and all together. I expected it to be you in on this, after all. And if we do it here, we won't have to go through the hassle of getting you tickets to back home.”

You sigh, burying your face in your hands. “I don't even care anymore.” You say. “I thought he was out of my hair for good when I moved out. I want to be  _ done,  _ damnit.”

“Oh, Dave,” Riley puts her hand on your arm and you have to bodily resist snatching yourself away. “Dirk, you too.” She puts her other hand on Dirk’s knee and you think he probably feels the same way. Her eyes are puffy and red but she smiles at both of you. “I  _ know  _ he would have wanted it this way, if he could have told us. He should have told us. He should have said a lot of things that he didn’t.”

“So you're a medium now, too.” Rose mutters. Roxy shushes her, but she goes on, venomously. “A shame you can’t call him up to dispel any lingering doubts we might have, much like you’ve never been able to prove your Skaian ancestry.”

The tenuous smile on Riley’s face falls, and she sniffles again before the tears come pouring. You’re not sure how she manages that, but you glare balefully at Rose even as Riley lets go of you to blow her nose again and sob into the tissues.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been awful at being your mother.” Her makeup is pretty much obliterated now, her face smeared with eyeliner. “And it’s no excuse that I’ve been even worse ever since Ambrose died. I need to let him go almost as much as his brothers do. We can do that, right? I promise. I’ll let him go if we can just do this one thing.”

(You want to throw in that you need to let him go for  _ completely _ different reasons, but that’s liable to make her go on even more.)

There’s silence for a time, broken only by Riley’s sniffling. Roxy glances exasperatedly between her sister and her mother, while Rose presses her lips tight and glares at Riley. Dirk remains as inscrutable as ever, at least on the outside, but you can  _ feel _ the nervous energy radiating off him in waves.

“He left so suddenly.” Riley sniffles, crushing a tissue against her eyes in a futile attempt to stem the flow of tears. She pulls out a flask from God knows where and takes a couple gulps, and it seems to calm her down, marginally, as the warmth spreads through her. “And I just- he should have a proper sendoff. He should have had a funeral, a big one, with as many people as we could have gotten there. We can’t do that now, we should do this.”

Dirk looks pleadingly at you. Or he just looks at you, but he moves his whole body with it, so it’s pretty much the same thing.  _ You want this over as much as I do. _ He looks like, before speaking up.

“It doesn’t look like we’re going to get any further on this and as much as I’d like to get it done back home, the pros outweigh the cons here. Rose, Roxy, I’m hella sorry that you got dragged into all this, but we’re just gonna have to deal with that. I fucking give up. It’s a pot of fucking ashes. Let’s get this over with as soon as we can.”

“Oh.” Riley blinks, as if remembering something. “I have. I have somewhere to be, tonight.”

Everyone collectively groans, but she shushes all of you, placatingly as she can, promising it’ll be over as soon as everyone gets out of the hotel tomorrow.

“It’ll only take a few days to get to where we need to be.” She says, and while Roxy rolls her eyes somewhere between pity and relief, Rose  _ seethes. _

“How convenient that you have to extend this for such an important detail without telling us.” She mutters, just low enough that you’re not sure if Riley actually notices.

Roxy looks around at everyone, bites her lower lip and leans back in her seat with her arms behind her head. “I guess we make the most of this, huh? Meeting adjourned? We can all have a snack break to unwind after that or something?”

“Dave, you have to go, too, don't you?” Riley looks right at you and you grimace at the thought. “That art show I'm going to, you were listed as, as one of the guest artists.”

“‘Course. Right. Wouldn't miss it for the world.” You clap your hands together with a note of finality and stand like some douche at a business meeting. “Let's go our separate ways for the moment and get something to eat, and we can worry about this later. For now, shit, let's be tourists.”

You consider not showing up, briefly, but what are the odds you'll have to see her at all? That and you actually do like seeing people react to your work, tepid as this particular set might be.

At least your model makes up for that, some. Speaking of, where is he?

Roxy takes you aside while everyone else does their own thing, and honestly you don't really listen to anything she says until she so happens to mention Karkat.

“You gonna show him off at that art show?” She asks, slyly, and like a fucking  _ rube,  _ you walk right into her manicured clutches. “Just, you know, the East Colfax charm is cute on him, but it isn't really great for  _ showing off _ , know what I'm saying?”

“You kinda have to spell it out here, I'm not too up for that Lalondian bush-battery right about now after  _ that. _ ” You say, jerking your head towards Riley and Rose. 

Roxy snorts, but pats your shoulder comfortingly. “Yeah, I can get that. What I'm  _ saying  _ is unless you wanna go shopping yourself, I can totes hook you up with somethin’ fresh and fabulous for your date. Turn a few heads. Get some contracts. That sort of thing.”

You pause. Something about the thought of someone  _ else _ taking intimate pictures of Karkat twists uncomfortable and unknowable in your insides. 

Roxy seems to pick up on it, bless her. “... _ Or _ just make them jealous that you snapped him up first?” She adds, twisting a lock of your hair on her index finger. Your scalp prickles, so you tilt your head away and she lets it go, but you nod right after.

“Ma’am, you had my interest with the first part, but now you have my attention.” Shitty references aside, you mean it. “You have until four to do something that’ll  _ keep  _ that attention.”

“And something for me.” She adds. “Because I'm not doing this  _ completely  _ free.”

You snort. “Of course.”

And  _ then,  _ late as anything, John walks in with a massive handprint on his cheek.


	20. intermission 2, part 2 END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formatting this one was Hell, because google docs is a bitch on mobile.
> 
> Five more to go!

_That evening..._

So the thing about Roxy is you probably should have given her some guidelines about what to get Karkat to wear because this? This wasn’t what you had in mind.

You’re not sure what you had in mind but you don’t think it involved him in a dress. It’s not that he looks bad in it, and it’s not too different from what you had him wear at the lighthouse- it actually stays on instead of flapping around dangerously close to naked, for one- but you feel bad getting handfuls of it crumpled up around his hips as you kiss him breathless against the wall.

Your name is Dave Strider and you’ve got it bad. You’re just now admitting this to yourself, silently and ruefully, as you fuck him.

Like, _midway_ do you realize this, as you fuck him.

You’re focused on the heat of your bodies, yeah; you’re focused on the tightness of him as he squeezes around you and makes these almost-pained noises against your mouth, but there’s a weight behind it that wasn’t there a goddamn month ago. There wasn’t that pressing need somewhere in the vicinity of you really don’t want to think about this but you don’t have a choice when you told him, just a month ago, that you didn’t believe what he said about falling from the sky.

There wasn’t the need to really think about it, or rather, there wasn’t the need to reconsider lying about it. Miraculously, this doesn’t kill the mood; there’s something about this that makes you want to keep going for the sake of how into it he obviously is, and honestly that _freaks you the fuck out._

So you shut down, at least long enough to get yourself off, and him alongside you. He sags in your arms and you don’t want to let go or move, but your legs aren’t going to hold you up forever or even past the next few seconds so you ease your way down with him and relearn how to breathe.

You’re entirely too earnest with him, and yet, you can’t bring yourself to say another word as he mutters something you can’t quite hear. Maybe you’ve already said too much, or you’re too tired; you’re tired like you’ve been running up twelve flights of stairs and your head is buzzing like a fluorescent bulb.

Somewhere in there, stripping at least part of your clothes off is involved, less a sensual affair and more a practical one. You’re silent through it, and he doesn’t seem to notice that it’s contemplative rather than comfortable as he crawls into bed in a daze, barely aware enough to get under the covers.

He leaves you to watch him, and to dwell on your thoughts. Bastard. You don’t think he’s even conscious enough to appreciate what kind of predicament he’s put you in.

You held off on admitting that this was more than something physical when you were snapping pics of him asleep like a fucking creep. You managed to hold off for a couple weeks, even when you'd caved on letting him come with you just because he looked about to cry, and you managed to push it out of your mind when you were editing photos of him from the lighthouse, tilting him this way and that to get the best play of light across his face.

Actually seeing him cry was an entirely different thing. He cries like a slow fracture across glass, or he would if glass looked liable to crumple in on itself instead of exploding outwards. If you were asked to pick which one you’d expected, you’d have called trick question; you didn’t expect to know him long enough to see him cry and you don’t want to see it again anytime soon. Not like that, at least.

You’re just now admitting to yourself that you like him way too much, more than is strictly between model and artist, or even friends, or a really, really nice ass. You can easily admit he’s got a fantastic ass, but admitting to yourself that you like him for more than that is like slowly pulling out your leg hairs. With duct tape.

You watch him breathing slowly as he drifts off. Your eyes itch, and you find yourself wandering onto the balcony and looking dizzily at the world below. The railing digs into your bony elbows unpleasantly and the wind is warm and smoky-spicy on your face. It’s early enough that you can still see cars going around below, the world lit up beneath you with lamps and shop windows.

It is, in fact, way too fucking early for this.

You look up at the cloudless, nearly-starless night, with the moon full and yellowy against all that blue-black sky. You look over your shoulder at where Karkat’s still asleep and kind of wonder if you can get away with leaving him alone in that bed or if you’re going to do the stupid thing and get in bed with him.

 _Hah_ , you’re not wondering. You’re putting it off.

Grumbling, you run your hands through your hair and wish you didn’t quit smoking a few years back because now you kind of miss it, at least, to have something to do with your hands and mouth that didn’t involve thinking about the taste of him still on your lips, the feel of his skin under your fingers.

So you take a deep breath and lean back until your back pops and you’re staring up at the sky, just barely speckled with stars, mostly blocked out by the lights of the city below. You let yourself think, traitorously, just for a few seconds, what it might be like if Riley and maybe Bro and even Karkat are right about Skaia or whatever. That’s three more people than nobody who think of it as real, or at least that’s the case if you can take Riley’s word for it.

You’re not going to take her word for it, but that’s still two people who’ve mentioned it to you specifically. That’s still fucking weird, you’re pretty sure Skaia isn’t on the level of like, the Tooth Fairy or something, and Karkat’s clearly too young to have found it in whatever obscure media Riley probably got it from.

So you let yourself think, maybe, before you brush it off as complete bullshit once more.  
A star falls overhead, a streak of light that winks out in less than a second. Karkat would probably have made a wish on it, and you’re feeling kind of maudlin right now, dumb as it may be. You close your eyes and think of something to wish for.

  
~!~

It’s a stupid thing to wish for.

But you wish he might like you back.

You’re pretty sure you’re just his sugardaddy right now, but if you had to wish for anything in the world tonight, it’d be for Karkat to understand that for once in your goddamn life, you _care_.

~!~

But you don’t believe in wishes enough to put much stock in it. It’s a cute sentiment, nothing more, like when you’d told him about wishing on a coin thrown over his shoulder. You’re surprised you remember that, actually, and as vividly as you do; the look of hope on his face, the little droplets of water clinging to his hair and eyelashes.

You have got it _so_ bad, and you somehow missed out on realizing that until so recently that it’s kind of embarrassing. You’re not the most in-touch with your emotions, sure, but you’re a lot better than most people at catching up on things sneaking up on you.

You drift back into the room, shutting the balcony’s sliding door behind you. For a minute, you consider a little longer, watching him. He lies on his side, fluffy white hair in loose curls framing his face. His chest rises and falls in slow, even breaths.

He doesn’t look so sad or so frustrated, asleep like this.

You don’t want to get in the bed and potentially _wake_ him, but you eye the space he’s left all the same, his arms sort of just invitingly laid across the half-open side of the sheets; it’s kind of ridiculous that he sleeps like that but goddamn you sure do _feel_ like getting in there with him regardless of how warm it’s inevitably going to get.

You’ve also never been very good at resisting your dumb ideas, as evidenced by the fact that you’re standing here with Starboy half curled up on the mattress after your initial “contract” has already expired.

Slowly, carefully- more careful than you think you’ve ever been around him awake- you peel back the covers just enough that you can get your feet in there. It’s already strikingly warm but you slide in the rest of the way and try to relax, sighing through your teeth as you stare up at the ceiling.

Tomorrow, you head out to wherever the hell it is that Riley is leading the bunch of you. It's kind of dumb, but you feel like there’s something significant about it, more than just a damaged woman grieving the loss of a friend who wasn't even all that there for her.

You turn your head and look at Karkat. Maybe it feels like it means something because he's involved. Maybe it feels like it means something because he makes you feel like pointless little gestures, fountains and falling stars, mean more than the things they are.

That is the sappiest fucking thing you've ever personally thought and you kind of hate yourself for it.

You sigh again, breath just barely stirring his hair. He's so close you could kiss him again, lips slightly parted, looking softer than anything. He wouldn't even notice if you just leaned in and gave him a little smooch, would he?

You turn your face towards the ceiling again and try to count sheep, or the shadowy spots in the painted cork. No matter what you do, your thoughts turn to the warm body sleeping next to you, and you have to force yourself not to roll out of the bed and grab your camera like a fucking weirdo.

You're a disaster in person shape. A hot mess that could rival the sun. You feel like you're going to drown in you own intimacy issues and you’re so far up your own intestinal tract with it all that you couldn't admit you're as far gone as you are if you'd wanted to.

Scratch that, you want to. You still can't, so you satisfy yourself with saying that's fine, that's how you like it. Sometimes it works.

When did you get this introspective? Certainly not any time you remember.

You wonder if he has this problem. If you ever had this problem before. You can't think of anyone who made you this much of an idiot except maybe Jade, and that was a different kind of weird and embarrassing. Less horrifying, for one, which says something because Jade Harley was raised by wolves or some shit like that.

(You also never got further than second base with her, because it was just too awkward with everything else going on at the time.)

(Karkat makes you feel like you'll never get enough.)

(Shut the fuck up, inner Dave.)

The next week or so is going to test more than your patience, then, so you'd better at least get some sleep now, because God knows it won't be a relaxing vacation with the Lalondes and your remaining brother around.

You close your eyes and breathe out, slowly, and breathe in, and repeat. Your thoughts still whirl around your head like the world’s shittiest carousel. There’s cotton candy sticking to the inside of your mouth, or maybe you just recall the taste of the drinks from the art show; unsurprisingly, you try to chase he memory of Karkat’s mouth instead.

You aren't sure when you drift off, but you dream of flying.

It feels a lot like falling, though.

END INTERMISSION


	21. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We now return to our semi-regularly scheduled programming.
> 
> I'm aiming for one chapter per week now. Wish me luck!
> 
> EDIT 1/17/2018:  
> Boy oh boy does life like to hand me some juicy yellow citrus sometimes.  
> Gotta focus on maybe one project this month so I'm not entirely sure if I can stick to that schedule, but if not this month, then the next. This month is almost over, anyway!

You have to spend a couple nights at a roadside inn along the way, much to the chagrin of pretty much everyone but Riley, who insists on wandering the inn itself and reminiscing about time she must have spent there with Ambrose before they made their way, somehow, to this far off America that they apparently lived in for a pretty long time.

Dave insists that as crappy as it was over there, it's an improvement over the Spanish countryside, because the wifi is better, for one, and there aren't any “goddamn chickens crowing at unholy hours of whenever they fuckin’ feel like it.”

You don't have the experience to bring any questions about it all to mind, so you take his word for it.

And he has told you a little, when you finally asked. It's a strange inverse of when he asked you about Skaia, and you find yourself pressing him for details, whatever little scrap of difference between all the places you've been and wherever he came from.

It's getting easier to _believe_ he isn't Skaian, too, though some part of you mourns knowing.

You think of who you know _is_ and shiver. Every time you look at Riley, you feel a creeping sickness in the back of your throat. You remind yourself who you are, where you came from. You recite names, though the faces that come with them get more warped by the day. You feel so distant and thin and cold, rubbing your arms until the blood rises pink under your skin even under the Spanish sun.

You're scared. Especially when you sleep. Every time you wake up, every day you spend here, Skaia in your mind is dimmer and less solid.

Even with Dave saying he's with you, you don't want to forget.

~!~

The second night, you dream of home, but the world has that deep-water, gelled feel of a nightmare, and your friends have no faces.

You fall between a crack in the clouds, down, down, _down_ , and you wake up gasping like you've surfaced from an icy sea. The bed is empty beside you, you’re not sure what time it is, and the sheets are slightly cool, which means, yeah, Dave’s gotten up and is who knows where.

You're still staring up at the ceiling, another fucking ceiling that still isn't the one from home and probably never will be.

You turn over on your side, shaking, blinking back tears and foggy bits of nightmare still floating in your peripheral vision. It becomes abundantly clear that you're not going to fall asleep any time soon, no matter how tired you tell yourself you are. You groan and pull yourself out of the bed, slightly too fast at first because the world goes grayish for half a second too long as you stand and stagger against the wall.

You breathe slowly, deeply, and it isn't enough at all to soothe the ache behind your ribs. You feel yourself cracking open from the inside out, a spreading pain that leaves you on your knees just trying to hold yourself together, trembling to your bones. You mutter names under your breath like a prayer until you can force yourself to stand. Silently, but for the hushed, harsh sobs you can’t stop no matter how hard you try, you feel the tears come.

You miss everyone so much. You miss the rattling, shrieking way Terezi laughs and thumps your back a little too hard when she tells a dumb joke. You miss Sollux throwing bits of trash at your window because he can’t sleep and wants someone to go who the Hell knows where with him. You miss Kanaya’s careful, snooty footsteps and hushed voice, like she’s telling you a secret, and Eridan, and Nepeta, and, and, the tears are coming faster now, spilling down your face while you cry, ugly and miserable.

It’s not even that life here has been completely horrible, at least after meeting Dave. But you don’t have that with him; you’re not his lover, you’re barely his friend, you don't know what you are. What way to live is that?

You want to go home.

You wipe your tears on your arm and straighten up. Now isn’t the time for a breakdown; you’re not sure when _can ****_be, but now isn’t it. You’re still sobbing, softly; hitches in your breath that you can’t stop, and it frustrates you enough that it spurs you into leaving the room and getting something to deal with it. Fresh air, maybe; the air is better out here than in either Barcelona or that nowhere town in Scotland.

You make your way out into the hall, padding your way down the carpet in mostly-silence. At least by the time you reach the stairs, your hitching breaths have pretty much calmed down, and you can make the rest of the slow way down in what could almost be a trance.  
The door creaks when you open it out into the night air, the gravel of the garden path crunching softly under your toes when you step into it. You sit down on the doorstep and sigh, watching your breath mist in front of your face, and look up at the night sky.

There’s no light but fireflies and stars out here, and the stars spread out overhead are strange and unfamiliar to you, but there’s a certain almost-comfort in being able to see them at all. There’s almost more starlight than night sky out here, so much so that the patches of darkness between them are more blue than black.

The star around your neck has no light left in it, and you’ve gotten used to wearing it so much that sometimes you almost forget it's there at all. You thread the chain through your fingers and lean back against the door, breathing slowly, just staring up at the sky.

You wonder if anyone up there is forgetting what you look like.

You get lost in the thought, awful as it is, until you hear someone coming from your left. Grass crunches wetly beside you, then gravel, and then there’s a faint warmth sitting a hand’s breadth away, right by your side. You don't turn your head, but Dave sits in the corner of your vision, pale as death under the moon.

“You can't sleep either, or you somehow followed me out here?” You ask. You don't exactly hear him laugh when you say it, but you kind of see the night air mist where he breathes out in a huff.

“Neither. Force of habit.” He says, leaning his head against the rough wall. “It's pretty rare that I don't wake up at this hour. Probably leftover from how I grew up.”

You remember the one time you woke up in his arms, just a couple days ago. Warmth lingers across your skin, and you find yourself holding onto that as you lean, slowly, against his side. It's only marginally warmer like that, but you hunger for it so much that you don't care. When you're resting your weight on him, you breathe out, and refocus your eyes on the starry sky.

There's nothing but the sound of night insects and wind-stirred leaves for a little while. You could fall asleep like this, if not for the undercurrent of unsaid things between the two of you. It buzzes in the back of your mind and the tip of your tongue, bitter and heavy, like the taste of blood.

You like to think he just hasn't noticed, as opposed to thinking he has and he’s just more stubborn about the silence than you are, because you sigh and break that crushing stillness first, sitting up again and rolling the kinks out of your shoulders. He turns to look at you as you do so, inscrutable behind his shades, and you just know he's expecting you to say something while for once you're not feeling petty enough to deny him.

You purse your lips but it’s not enough to stop you.

“What am I to you?” You ask. “Why bring me all the way out here?”

He doesn't answer at first, but you see his lips move, like he's tasting the words before he says them. You shake your head and rest against his side again. “Tell me honestly. We've gotten to this point. We've ended up in the middle of fucking nowhere together, and there's nobody to hear you but us.”

“That's two people too many.” He licks his lips, dark flutter of his tongue against the washed-out pink. “And even if it wasn't, I wouldn't know what to say.”

“It's not a hard question.” You feel him shift under you. His arm goes around your shoulders, his face in your hair.

“You're beautiful, you know that?” He says, and when you snort that he's avoiding the question, he goes on. “‘Course you don't. You put on a ball gown or a bedsheet and you have that same expression in both.”

“I'm not that easy to distract.” But you're blushing, because he isn't pushing you away, he isn't giving you some roundabout meaningless bullshit. You don't move, but you ask him again. “Why did you cave so easily when I got pissy about you leaving?”

He goes quiet, and then when you think he's not going to answer at all, he says it.

“I felt guilty about you.” He runs his hand along your arm, and the chill that pools in your gut is almost more than you can take. “I feel like even more of an asshole than I am by just saying it, too. I meant what I said a couple nights ago, but it's a lie to say there isn't a kind of repentance involved.”

You take a deep breath that feels like it's full of poison, but your voice sounds completely clear. “Repentance. Are guilt and pity all I have going for me?”

There's a hitch in the rhythm of the conversation, but he shakes his head after a second.

“No.” He answers. “But it's the only answer you and I are hearing tonight.”

“It doesn't do much to make you feel better.” You say. A thin strip of greenish gold forms along the horizon, and just a few heartbeats later, birdsong starts to filter into your awareness while the air begins to taste of morning.

“We should head back inside.” He says. “Catch another hour or two before breakfast.”

You grunt in assent as you pick yourself up and follow him back into the welcoming dark behind the door.

You look over your shoulder before you shut the door behind you. The countryside gleams green and pale blue and gold, and the rising sun only deepens it all as it chases away the morning fog.

~!~

Breakfast comes two hours later, two hours which you spent lying awake and contemplating, replaying, what Dave said outside.

Breakfast was fried eggs and tomatoes, some kind of spicy sausage, and water so cold it hurt your teeth. You barely tasted it as you ate, though the taste of oil and egg yolk lingers behind your teeth as you all get ready to leave again.

“Only another day away.” Says Riley, while Dirk pores obsessively over a digital map, and the Lalonde sisters chatter among themselves in a corner.

Dave stands beside you, and then sits beside you in the car. You think he's watching you as you watch the countryside pass by, fields and trees and rolling hills.

Something aches behind your ribs, and it isn't that you miss home this time. The star hangs weightless from your neck, and you think even you feel a little lighter out here, a little more color returned to your hands. You absently lace your fingers through Dave’s on the seat beside you, and stare out the window until it stings.

“What's it like?” You ask. “Where we’re headed, I mean.”

“Small and lacking in air-conditioning.” Replies Riley from the front. She smiles, bitterly; you see her reddened eyes in the rearview mirror. “Ambrose would have been right at home. Maybe he never should have left.”


	22. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for this chapter.

You arrive at the next town, your destination at last, at around nightfall. You don't know its name, but it's strung up with festive lanterns like glowing jewels, staining the pale brick buildings like watercolor.

It's different from the town with the lighthouse, more than it has its similarities. The buildings are clustered closer, yellowy-white stone and red-tiled roofs, stalls selling fresh flowers and fruit scattered under the eaves. But it's still arranged in a series of concentric circles around a town square, cobblestones underfoot, with a massive, elaborate fountain in the middle spraying jets of water high enough that it turns mostly to mist before it comes down.

You feel sick with memory at the sight. You see the fountain you made a wish by, and feel sick with the thought of wishes.

“We're here.” Says Riley, cutting through a silence you hadn't even realized you’d all fallen into. She opens her door and you hear the burbling water even from where you sit, and people chattering brightly at the edges, vendors hawking wares, lovers and families. 

Riley disregards all of them as she disembarks, and the spell on the gathered retinue breaks. Dave struggles with his seatbelt like it’s personally offended him, muttering under his breath, but the Lalonde sisters and Dirk pull away with the kind of slow deliberation you’d expect of a funeral.

Fitting for what you’re all gathered for, you suppose. You unlatch your own seatbelt at the same time Dave finally gets free. Once you're all gathered in a loose cluster outside of the van, Riley murmurs something John and then to the driver and sends them off to wherever.

You're a small gaggle of tourists, it would look like, if not for how sharply-dressed and somber half of you look, how shabby in comparison the other half look, how warm all of you are dressed despite the sun warmth still radiating off the cobbles at this hour.

You shift uncomfortably from foot to foot, as, almost ceremonially, Riley takes the clay urn- so small for a thing that’s caused as much tension as it has- and leads your small procession to the center of the square.

The fountain is even bigger up close, but not loud enough to muffle her voice.

“Is this what you wanted?” She says, clutching the urn tight against her middle. “Is this what you killed yourself for?” She has her back to all of you, but her wavering, brittle voice carries despite the proximity to the fountain. It rises with every sentence. “You left me on this  _ rotten fucking Hell _ on purpose, didn't you? You left when I had my girls and never returned my calls and now you've left me entirely to figure shit out  _ alone. _ ”

“Mom…” Roxy says it so quietly you almost miss it. The Striders look like they'd rather be anywhere but here, Dave scuffing his shoes and glaring at passers by, Dirk focused silently on his phone. Rose looks straight ahead at her mother, back straight, and lips tight and eyes like steel.

And Riley, her voice only goes more shrill as it rises in volume. 

“You fucking  _ bastard.  _ I can't believe you. We came here together, and you don't have the decency to stay.” She trembles, so hard you know she must be crying where she's not facing any of you. With a wail that shocks you to your core, she smashes the urn on the edge of the fountain and collapses to her knees, sobbing. Blood blooms in the water and is whisked away as fast as it comes from her lacerated hands.

“Mother!” Rose hisses. But it's evident Riley can't hear you right now.

“Well here you go, you thoughtless son of a bitch!” She shrieks. Dirk finally can't take it and comes to her side, trying to pull her away, gesturing helplessly at the rest of you as she pushes him away and continues her breakdown. “You got what you wanted! You're finally out of here! Without me! Was I really so bad that you couldn't even say goodbye? That I had to learn from your  _ sons? _ ”

“Come on, Riley, this is way more of a scene than we need.” Dave mutters, but his hands shake too, clenched into fists at his sides.

Riley finally stops shrieking, instead plaintively sobbing to the empty sky. Her hands are still bleeding where the urn’s shards broke against her palms, bits of clay dug into her skin, but she doesn't look like she cares as she finally shatters.

You don't belong here, but you're transfixed. Riley may not be a relative of yours, but… You mourn with her, in a way. You mourn both of you being lost. You mourn that she was left here, that she's fallen from more than Skaia.

It takes a long time for her to stop openly wailing. For her to just sob against Dirk’s shoulder. Everyone but you and Roxy looks vaguely embarrassed by the whole spectacle.

“Let’s go, we did what you needed and now we need to get you cleaned up and rehydrated.” Dirk says, rubbing her back as he brings her to her feet. She sniffles, following him limp and shaky, and Rose and Roxy follow suit. Rose meets your eye accusingly as she passes, as if somehow this is your fault.

You can't help but feel like in some small way it is. You know better, but to watch her grieve is a chilling sight all the same.

You and Dave are left standing there last, when the others have crowded away to try and do some damage control. 

You look back at the fountain, and the shards of the urn scattered in the basin. The reddish clay looks almost like blood, not helped in that impression by Riley’s own actual, bloody handprint on the marble, slowly being washed away. Ash swirls in the eddies of the fountain’s streams.

You feel like something about this should be significant, or momentous; some spark of realization or magic should come through here, where two of your people fell, where one more stands.

But nothing happens. Beautiful as it is, the fountain is just a pretty, tiered pond.

It makes you kind of sad.

Dave looks at you, his sharp face gone gaunt and exhausted. He opens his mouth as if to say something and then changes his mind, shaking his head.

“I feel like I have at least  _ some  _ explaining to do,” He says. He looks at his watch and purses his lips. “First I need to figure out what I need to explain, though. You should go follow everyone else, I can meet y'all back at wherever it is we’re staying.”

You look pointedly at him. “They didn’t say where we were staying.”

He shrugs. “Then Dirk will have to hunt me down again, I don’t know.” 

When you take a step forward, he frowns, and scuffs his shoe on the cobbles again. “It’s not like I haven’t been running from him and Bro for years. I’ve got the experience to give him a pretty good chase. Take your pick of who you want to deal with, my family’s drama or just me being an asshole. I know when I need a little fresh air to help me handle their hysterics, and I don’t want to stand here being a spectacle for the locals after that particular shitshow.”

And he’s right, people have been staring, though they politely avert their eyes when they notice you looking back. But you're tired enough of him dodging questions and leaving you floundering that when he turns to leave, you close the distance in three long steps and grab him by the arm.

He looks at you like you've slapped him, but you press your lips in a thin line and squeeze his arm.

“What do you want, now?” He asks. You can only just barely see his eyes through his shades. You shake your head.

“No need to explain your family bullshit, I couldn’t give less of a fuck about that.” You say. “But I want you to know-  _ really  _ know- that you don't have to tiptoe around me like any weird revelations of yours are going to shatter me.”

You feel the tension in his muscles go just a little slack, before he tries to pull back again. You tighten your grip further, frowning. 

“Stop running from  _ me _ .” You growl. “Maybe we aren’t that close, but you don’t have to act like we’re complete strangers either. I’ve poured out my life story to you, even if you don’t believe a damn word of it.”

You see his mouth tremble, a half-second of breaking, hesitation crossing the whole of his body language. What can you do but hold on?

“Please,” You say. He doesn’t meet your eye. “You wanted to help me. I want to pay back just a little of that.”

He laughs, in that insincere way he's so prone to lately. “Sorry, Starboy, but I don’t think this is something you  _ can _ help me with.” And he’s smiling, bright and brittle, practiced as an actor’s tears and with even less heart behind it. “Thanks for trying, though; that made me feel a little better about the Strider-Lalonde clan clusterfuck.”

His smile falls away in increments when he realizes you haven’t let go of his arm. When he tries to peel your fingers off, you hold on tighter. 

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “At least let me talk about it somewhere a little less exposed? We’re standing in the middle of the square, you know. I’m a kinda put on the spot, here.”

Well, it’s not ideal, but it will do. You let go of his arm, and sit on the rim of the fountain. When he quirks an eyebrow at you, you pat the space to your left, away from the mess Riley made. He looks at the spot you present him and then at you, and then his shoulders sag and he actually comes to sit by you.

“Yeah, alright, the fountain is good enough.” He says. You tuck a bit of hair behind your ear and turn your face away from him, looking out at the other people in the square. It’s colorful and peaceful in a way that neither Blinscraig nor what little of Barcelona you’d seen are. Shame you can’t quite appreciate it right now.

You grip the edge of the fountain’s rim, take a deep breath, and try again. 

“... So.” You say. 

“... Yeah.” He says.

You think you’ll have to press again, but then he goes on.

“It’s not even really that I think you can’t handle it.” He says, mumbling to himself more than really talking to you. “I get it, that's probably what it looks like, and I don't think I've done anything to make it seem like otherwise, but…” 

He laughs and tilts his head back. One hand pushes up his shades so he can wipe his face and drop them back down. “Saying this much already makes me sound like an idiot, you know. I don’t think it’s worth it to worry about me. Just let me take care of you instead and forget this conversation happened.”

“Well  _ now _ I can’t.” You say, but he’s already getting up. You only just barely catch him by the sleeve. “Don’t go yet, you haven’t answered anything!”

“That’s kind of the fucking point.” He hisses, snatching his sleeve away. “So I’ve got some kind of complex about looking out for you, can’t you just be content to say I’m your sugardaddy? Most hookers would be  _ all over _ the position you’re in, and Hell, sometimes I question why it got like this after that first contract expired, too. I know the  _ fucking _ answer, but that doesn’t make it any more palatable.”

“Then tell me!” You stand up yourself, still holding onto his sleeve. “I’ll put it to rest once I know!”

He glares at you, and you fall silent. “You really want to know?”

He doesn’t give you the chance to answer; he turns to face you head on with eyes like fire. 

“I love you.” He says. Despite how he says it, softly, achingly, it hits you with the force of a bullet. Like an idiot, it takes you a full minute to respond, when your hand limply falls from his wrist.

You barely hear yourself speak. “I’m sorry to hear that.”


	23. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go, and then epilogue.

Two and a half months ago, you fell to Earth with your fingers around the tail of a falling star. Sometimes you think you dreamed it all.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you may have just made the biggest mistake of your life.

Somehow it's a worse mistake than falling in the first place.

~!~

Dave clicks his tongue against his teeth, glancing away from you at nothing in particular. 

“Yeah.” He says. “Yeah, I kinda thought you’d be. This doesn't come as any surprise.”

When he looks at you again, and you're still standing there being a dumbstruck piece of shit, he's all cool and collected. His voice doesn't shake, his tone is perfectly calm, but he looks at you through his shades like you're a point on a wall he's using to recite lines.

“Listen, it's no big deal. This was a business arrangement from the get go, and I knew that going in. If I got a little more attached than a sugardaddy should, that’s on me. I don't expect you to do anything for me that you wouldn't do without some compensation.” He reaches into his pocket, and you realize he's pulling out his wallet. “I probably held off on this a little too long, too, huh?” 

He smiles like he's at a funeral. When you don't smile back, he smooths out the line of his mouth again, counting out bills. He takes you by one wrist like he's afraid you'll disappear, and presses a bundle of smooth bills into your palm.

“That's about a couple hundred euros right there.” He says. “And it'll be a regular thing. So you're not where you want to be, that's fine. But stick with me and you might change your mind, yeah?”

He's paying you to stay.  _ Begging  _ you, almost, in that offhand way he does.

“I wouldn't do this for just anyone else, you know.” He says. “The trashy creeper mags can tell you as much about what a disaster my actual attempts at a love life have been. But I've got it worse than a bad sushi dinner, and by it I mean how crazy I am about you.”

You look down at your hands, bits of colored paper pressed between your fingers. You never realized how short he kept he nails, how dry the skin around them was, and now that you hate the idea of looking him in the eye right just now, you're transfixed.

“Look at me. Please.” 

Though you still have to, or you'll never forgive yourself. There’s no good choices here so you slowly tear your eyes away from his fingers, refocusing on his face.

“You don't have to love me back.” He says. “You can keep me around for money or fame or whatever else you want, I've got plenty to spare. I don't even give a shit. Just don't let this stupid confession get to you, alright?” His lips twitch upwards, cautiously. “Just consider how things can work out for you, if not romantically, then financially. It's just smart business, you know.”

He pats your clasped hands one last time and lets go, taking a step back like giving you a little physical space will help you make your decision. You feel…

You don't know how you feel. You have a fist full of money and a head full of questions that you can't get into words, and you can feel the time ticking by as you stand around waiting for nothing.

Dave doesn't smile, doesn't change his expression at all, but somewhere in his tone you hear scorn. “What, too honorable to be a gold digger? That'd be a first for me. I do have to admit that I'm feeling just a little insulted at the idea that I'm not even good enough to be someone’s source of spending money.”

“I never said that.” You snap, narrowing your eyes at him. “And don't say things like that, I can see why the rest of your relationships went to Hell if you tell your significant others bullshit like that.”

He deflates all at once. He rubs his forehead and then switches gears and runs his hand through his hair instead.

“I'm sorry.” 

You pause. You even shake yourself a little to make sure you heard that right. “Come again?”

He licks his lips, nervously, glancing away from you again. You see sweat beading on his upper lip from either nerves or the warm evening, most likely the former. When he looks at you again, he actually reaches up and takes off his shades so you can look him properly in the eye, and you don't know what to make of how it makes your throat tighten up.

“I'm sorry.” He repeats. “I'm being a complete asshole here. I don't actually want to pressure you into sticking around, and I get it if you want to take a little cash and disappear to God knows where after all this. I can get John to fake you another passport”

He bites his lip, bracing himself for your answer. It'd be funny if you didn't find it so frustrating, how convinced he is that you would leave.

“I'll think about it.” You say. There's a kind of confidence in your voice that wasn't there before. “It's not a no, but it's not a yes. And if you really don't want to push me towards staying or leaving, you'll let me have a little time to think it over. A few hours, maybe, or a day. However long it takes me around that timeframe.”

He chews his lip to mull it over, and then nods.

“I'll leave you to it, then.”

This time, when he turns away, you don't stop him.

~!~

You miss home a lot, or what you think is home. You don't know how long it will be until you forget about it entirely, brush it off as nothing but a long dream, stranded here for the rest of your foreseeable future, possibly beyond. Looking at Riley, you're not sure if you want to keep remembering after all

~!~

You stay by the fountain until John comes looking for you, hours later, and if you resent him a little for looking for you at a time like this, you manage to pass it off as still being pissed at him for not believing your story.

“Did you see where Dave went? Goofus forgot his phone in his luggage again.” He says, walking a little ahead of you and looking around at everything you pass by. Your own eyes are pretty much fixed to a point between his shoulder blades, and not even really comprehending that point as you think over your options. 

Or rather, you  _ tell  _ yourself you want to think over what you’re going to tell Dave later. Mostly you find yourself distracted by thoughts of what the  _ fuck  _ must have been going through his head when you told him you were sorry to hear a heartfelt confession from him. You’d been hungry for something from his heart this whole time, after all. You’re not sure what you hungered for, when he’d given you so much.

…

And yet, it wasn’t exactly untrue. You were-  _ are- _ sorry to hear that, being that you don’t feel the same way. You can only pity him for doing something as unfortunate as loving a wreck like you, incomplete as you are on both Skaia and Earth. You’d pity anyone who fell for something like you.

You’re so deep in thought that you almost don’t notice when John stops and turns around, and you only manage to stop yourself just in time before you can faceplant right into his chest. You still end up awkwardly close, and you take a step back maybe a little too hurriedly while he raises an eyebrow and waves a hand in front of your face.

“Are you alright? You don’t seem exactly all in one place right now.” He asks, looking suddenly concerned. Of course, after the last time he looked at you like that, you don’t feel like trusting his face alone.

You grumble, “I’m fine,” and it seems to be good enough for him. 

He shrugs and turns around again, though he doesn’t continue walking for the moment, stopping by a stall to examine the wares on display. Clay pots and bowls painted in bright, kitschy patterns, from small enough to fit in your palm to the size of your head. He picks one up and says something to the sleepy-looking vendor, before turning to look at you over his shoulder.

He looks as amiable as ever, but you feel a distinct knot in the pit of your gut just at the way he looks at you, appraisingly, like he’s only seeing you now and he doesn’t like what he sees.

His smile widens a little and the moment is gone. “You think we should get Dave one?”

You blink.

“What?”

“I’m asking if we should get Dave a souvenir.” He says, putting down the clay bowl. It’s so small, it’s more of a cup really. “You spend a lot of time with him lately, I think you might have an idea, too. Besides, this trip’s been kinda rough on him, don’t you think?”

You rub your arm, and then you glare at him, suddenly fully conscious of what he’s getting at. “Spit it out. I don’t have time for mind games.”

He puts his hands up defensively. “I’m not playing any mind games. I’m just saying, you know him pretty well by now, right? And I mean, so do I, but sometimes I like to get a second opinion.”

“Bullshit, you’re not half as good at dancing around shit as you think you are. Something’s up, something came up just a second ago.” You gulp around the sudden dryness in your mouth. Your voice shakes. “I don’t know what  _ your _ angle is, but it’s not going to help your best fucking friend if you try to win me over  _ for _ him.”

His expression hardens. As he picks up another pot, even smaller, without looking at you, he speaks. “This wasn’t about that a second ago, but alright. Let’s say it is for a minute.” Again, he talks to the vendor, and after letting you stew in your own nerves for half a minute or so, pays the lady and gestures for you to follow him. “If you want to, okay, we’ll address whatever drama you and Dave have going on right now.”

You cross your arms, feeling even more of a chill. John looks at you again, sharp smile and sharper eyes, and you have to resist the urge to fidget like a child under that kind of scrutiny. 

He checks his watch and huffs through his oversized teeth. “Whatever you two were talking about, I’ll be honest, I don’t care about it even a little bit.” He says, so bluntly it stuns you like a slap in the face. 

He looks up, sternly. “I  _ do _ care a lot about my friends, though, and that includes Dave. You, not so much yet! You could be eventually, but we met like a week ago, dude. I don’t care about you yet.”

He turns the clay pot over and over in his hands, and then beckons you closer. You ignore the pot, watching him warily until he looks you in the eye. 

He speaks like he’s telling you a secret. “He’s fragile, you know?” And he chuckles to himself. “Likes to make himself out to be a big tough guy and all, but he’s not very good at it. He likes you a lot more than he wishes he was letting on, like, dude, I don’t know if that’s going over your head or not.”

You bristle, and you’re about to say you _knew_ _that,_ and something like _how the fuck do you know,_ but he cuts you off, waving one hand around to gesture absently in the air. “ I don’t know how he’s gotten you so fooled. But that’s not really my point here; what I’m _really_ trying to say is you don’t have to put up with his bullshit. You can cut right through it. You’ll probably _have_ to.”

“And I suppose you’re going to tell me the secret to how?” You ask, rolling your eyes. ‘What do you even mean by  _ have to _ ?”

“Nothing important.” His eyes twinkle, and he presses the little pot into your hands. “I’ll leave you alone so I can look for him now. You figure out what you want to do. And here.” He hands you a card, the address of the hotel they’re staying at. “You feel free to come back if you ever feel like, or you just want a free meal.” 

With that, he waves and saunters away like he  _ actually  _ doesn’t have a care in the world. You stand there with a little pot in hand, looking down at it. When you look up again, he’s gone.

~!~

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you’re a fucking idiot.

But you’re at least going to make the best of your situation.


	24. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final actual chapter

Your name is Karkat Vantas, you remind yourself.

Your best friends were and had always been Kanaya, Sollux, and Terezi. You enjoyed gossiping with Eridan and Nepeta. You live in the central clusters of Skaia, where the spires were closest to the ripening wishing-stars, so that even though you yourself could never fly, you might someday get the chance for a wish.

That day came like any other, after weeks upon weeks of drumming up your own anticipation for it. Then you fell.

Now, though you could never fly and you held no magic in your blood, your bones ache with waking up in a heavier world and your skin drinks up light like it will never be warm. You feel like you could stick your hands in a fire and crave more.

It sounds insane, at this point. Your memories of this world go back only two and a half months, though, so dreaming of Skaia is all you have left of a home.

~!~

So you’re not really in a hurry to make your decision, but that doesn’t mean it feels any better to go over your options. Rather, it doesn’t feel any better to go over your not-really options as it is.

Your fingers feel the ridges of the star hanging from your neck. It’s cold, a piece of greyish deadweight. You pull the chain over your head and wrap it twice around your hand, resting the pendant in the center crease of your palm. It’s warmed with your skin, but dead weight now, practically blackened into a piece of cinder and not even gleaming anymore.

You think, this is what brought you here, and reminds you that your dreams- your _memories-_ were real. Magic was real. People who could fly and stars that could grant wishes were real. But you look at Riley and think, what worth is that, if you never _go_ home?

You find yourself walking with it nestled in your palm, every step feeling heavier than the last. The more you contemplate it, the more it’s clear you don’t have a real choice in this.

It stings, though you're getting the hang of things being that way. Maybe you can be happy with that.

~!~

You recall one of the days you spent with Dave at the lighthouse. It feels like another lifetime, though more solid (just barely) than the one you've left behind. Everything tastes of seaweed and salt, from your breakfast to your dinner to the water in the sink.

He handed you a cigarette that day, after you’d done another shoot. You remember the taste of your own sweat behind the seaweed, remember how the light slanted weird, and how it was never quite right for him to take his shots. You turned the cigarette over in your fingers while he lit another one and stuck one end in his mouth. He glanced sidelong at you.

“Don’t smoke?” He asked, the burning side brightening further as he took a drag. You shook your head and kept turning the papery tube in your fingers, over and over, like a lucky coin. He scoffed. “You can give it back, you know. Ain’t nothing special about it.”

He didn’t make a move to take it back, and didn’t do so for the rest of the day, either. When you went back downstairs, you left it on his luggage with the conspicuous placement of an offering on a foreign altar. He laughed when he saw it, unguarded in his surprise, and presumably threw it away when you weren't looking.

Of all the things to remember, it’s nothing important, but it was the first time he’d laughed around you without sounding like he was waiting for someone to hit him.

~!~

You find him eventually, without meaning to. You’d given up on speaking to him for the evening, even though the weight of your decision hung heavy in your mind as an overripe fruit.

When you arrive at the address on the little card John gave you, he’s the first thing you see, ducking out of the door with a cigarette in his mouth and a lighter in his hand, so you know he’s spoken to his family again. Some of the windows on the second floor are still lit. It’s dark, and getting late, and neither of you should be outside.

He looks up once his cigarette is lit, eyes alighting on you with a glimmer of hope that he pushes away half a second later, covers up with his stupid shades even though that probably blinds him entirely.

Smoke unfurls from his mouth when he speaks, his tone resigned. “I meant to quit back in Scotland.” He says. His laugh is brittle, jaded even. “My family’s going to give me lung cancer. I haven’t been this wound up since…” He trails off, quietly, and then sighs, tossing it to the ground and snuffing it out it under the toe of his shoe. He looks up at you and readjusts his shades.

“I haven’t been this wound up forever, really. Would it be presumptuous to ask you about what your decision is? I can wait on it some more, if you’re-”

“No, I’ve thought about it enough.” You say. “I’ve thought over it way more than enough in one night. I also ran into John; he wanted me to give you this.”

You close the distance between you two like you’re walking through deep water, pressure mounting wordlessly as you put the trinket John gave you in Dave’s hand. For someone so pale, Dave has surprisingly warm hands. You don’t let go, for maybe a little too long.

“This is a piece of tourist trash.” He says.

“I know.” You say. Tentatively, you smile. “I wanted to put it off a little longer. Maybe I hoped you would say more.”

“For once, I’m all ears. Whatever you say now, I’m listening.” He probably means it as a comfort, but you feel like you’re drowning except you can’t die. The star hangs heavy from your other wrist. You have to breathe.

He looks hopeful again, and terrified, and you don't know what to do with this man who could look at you being strange and selfish and lost and still love you.

But you do know what you can do for him. You let go of his hand. He watches, disappointed, as your fingers slide out of his.

“Yeah, I kind of expected as much.” He says, putting on his brave face again. “I can have your stuff packed up for you. Call another cab to take you wherever you like. A parting gift.”

“No need.” You say, and you close the distance further and lean against his chest, face buried in his shirt, head tucked under his chin. You breathe in the smell of him, skin, some kind of cologne, some kind of smoke, probably soap. “I’m not going anywhere, as long as you still want me.”

~!~

You feel warm to your core, against him. The watery pressure in your head abates some as you hold him close.

~!~

Maybe you can do more than survive, like this.

~!~

“What?” He whispers into your hair, while you’re still holding onto him. You feel his shoulders shake with a soundless laugh.

“I said I’m staying with you.” You repeat yourself, right against him, like you want to speak the words into the depths of him. “As long as you want. Until every star falls, if it comes to that. I don’t love you like you love me right now, but who says I can’t learn to?”

“I…” He shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. You rest your head against his shoulder now, speaking right into his ear.

“I want to stay with you, Dave. What else does this world have to offer me?” You say. “In terms you’ll understand, you’re the best I’ve got. I can do more than live one fuck to the next with you. What better environment to learn to love you?”

He gulps dryly. You smile to yourself, maybe a little ruefully.

“Let’s go upstairs.” You say. You pull away from him, but he wraps his arms around you, holds you like you’ll dissolve into mist if he lets you go, holds you like he wants to memorize every detail of the way you fit against him like this.

“You scared the shit out of me.” He says. Before you can get stuck there, you peel yourself off and look him in the eye.

“But I have one condition.” You say, sounding very grave. “Just one, and I promise I’ll stay until you tell me to fuck off.”

“Name it. I don’t think I ever will, but you name it.” The devotion in his tone almost breaks you. Your hands shake as you bring them up to his face, cupping his cheeks, and you tilt his head so you can kiss him.

When you pull away, you only do so far enough that you can whisper the shape of your condition into his mouth and unwind the star from your wrist, placing it into his free hand.

“Get rid of this for me.” You tell him. “Take it somewhere far away, where I’ll never see it again. Where I’ll never remember.”

~!~

He breathes in the words, silent as he thinks it over. He looks down at the strange little stone. He looks back up at you.

“I’m serious.” You say. “I won’t look for it, but you can’t keep it. If I ever see it again, I’ll try to leave.”

It seals the deal enough for him. He grips it tight and nods.

“Guess I’m really in love with a story.” He says. He bounces it in his palm a little, feels the weight of it, the weight of what brought you here, the weight of your memories. “There’s stories about this, you know. It’s still not my thing, but you hear that kind of thing, hanging around Rose.”

“Dave.” You grip his shirt a little tighter. He gulps.

“I’ll do it.” He says. “Cross my heart, swear on my mother’s grave, whoever she was. I’ll fucking destroy it if I can.”

You smile at him again. “Thank you. Now come on, it’s weird just standing out here.”

He checks his watch and yawns, then drops the star into the little pot you gave him. He rolls it around in his palm. “Yeah, and I should probably put this stupid little tchotchke somewhere secure. Wouldn’t want to fuck up as early as this into the relationship.”

He finally lets you breathe, and you take him by the hand and lead him up the stairs.

~!~

You lie awake beside him, later that night. You face the window, with the moon turning the sky pale blue and the millions of stars looking down on the world.

You wonder who remembers you. Terezi, Sollux, Kanaya, everyone else.

But you know what you’re signing up for. One day, the stars will just be lights in the sky.

Maybe that’s for the best. You feel Dave wrap his arms around you, and feel the warm tears running across the bridge of your nose, into the pillow. You put a hand over one of his, to let yourself be warmed, and you close your eyes.

You dream that night, but not of Skaia. You dream of sunlight, and photos, and overripe fruit that taste faintly of salt.

~!~

Your name is Karkat Vantas and the star you once held around your wrist is dead. It has been for two and a half months, and you needed something to push you into accepting the fact.

You should have accepted it when you fell.

You should have accepted it when you became a whore.

You should have accepted it when you left that lighthouse and went with Dave somewhere new.

You accept it now.

You have Dave. It’s not Skaia, but you don’t have to look for it in every gesture or superstition anymore. If there’s no way home to there, you’ll make a home here of fountains and falling stars.


	25. Epilogue

You are now Dave Strider.

Five months ago, you met a stranger in a pub so pretty that Cupid skipped out on the bow and arrow and went for the heavy artillery. It took you a month or two to figure that out, but it explained a lot about the way you dealt with him when you could finally swallow that particular pill, admitting to yourself that it wasn’t just momentary aesthetic infatuation after all the time you’d spend with him. It’s a little amazing how quickly that went, too.

You confessed to him in a picturesque little Spanish village and he broke your heart. A few hours later he broke it again, but in an entirely different way. You didn’t know hearts could break from getting what they wanted, cheesy as that sounds.

~!~

Three days after that episode at the fountain in the center of that village, the Lalondes depart for wherever it is they head off to when they’re not stirring up drama in your life. Dirk and John remain for a while longer, and you do as you’d promised your brother, all of you going bar-hopping on your credit card and trying to pretend all of that and the last year or so didn’t just happen.

You snuggle up to Karkat and kiss him on the corner of the mouth, taste the tequila sunrise when he parts his lips and you plunge your tongue in. Distantly, you hear people around you whooping, cheering you along in a fashionable Barcelona gay bar that makes your head spin.

John gets hit on several times and snort-laughs his way through innuendos and offers. The sadness in Karkat’s eyes, hazy and lurid as the smokey lights, draws you to kiss him deeper and murmur how much you love him. You’ve never been so emotional in your life. You don’t know if you like that he draws that out of you like he’s disemboweling you.

(That’s a lie. You live for it.)

You all stumble back to the hotel drunk and gibbering, and that night you let him hold you and run his fingers through your hair until you fall asleep, still murmuring sweet nothings to him like a final request.

~!~

You still have the necklace in the little pot buried somewhere in your luggage another week later, when it’s time for you to head out again. Your agent is furious with you, when you finally come crawling back, but you show her the photos and introduce her to Karkat and she says maybe she’ll forgive you if you mix up something suitably hilarious for her, too.

You blow a little metaphorical dust off your turntables and get to work in your “home base”, that is, the apartment where you actually spend most of your time when you’re in the U.S. of A. You’d specifically chosen the furthest point from Houston, Texas as you could; the fact that John likes to come back to suburban Seattle for nostalgia’s sake so you have a ready escape route is a bonus.

Not like you think you’ll be needing another escape for a while yet.

~!~

A month and a half later, you’re somehow still here. The wanderlust is starting to itch in the back of your mind again, but it hasn’t taken a proper hold of you just yet. You don’t leave the apartment much, unless Karkat feels compelled to explore. Lord knows you’ve probably given the tabloids a lifetime’s worth of gossip to work off of just exploring the place with your mysterious paramour.

But you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

~!~

Four and a half months later, Karkat straddles your hips while you’re working and drinks up the surprise straight from your mouth.

“What’s the occasion?” You ask, adjusting your shades from where they’ve slipped down to  _ under _ your nose.

“You’re working yourself into the ground.” He says. “I think you need this more than I do.”

He plucks the shades off your face and kisses you again, slower; it’s somehow more intimate than anything he’s ever done to you, with you, for you. You ache at the thought that you somehow managed to get him so close and yet not close enough. You tell yourself he’s happy with you, and that’s why he does these things.

You almost fail to notice the weight against your throat, slightly warm but distinctly too hard to be skin. You break the kiss and glance down, and your blood runs cold.

“What is it?” He asks. You gulp. 

But you force yourself to say it, terrified of the answer. You feel like the cold in your ribs will shatter you with frostbite. “Be real with me, what’s this about?” 

And he looks at you confused, concerned even. You tug at the chain hanging around his neck.

“I found it in one of your bags.” He he says, unclasping it and dropping it in your hand. “I thought it was nice, if a little morbid. Looks like a petrified bug. I think there was probably some drama about it a while ago, I was kind of crazy back then, wasn’t I?”

And it hits you like you’re a twelve year old getting thrown down the stairs in Houston again.

“Dave?” He asks, but you shake your head, tucking the stone into your pocket.

“Nothing.” You say. “It’s not actually important. It’s just some trinket trash I picked up and forgot to get rid of.”

He mumbles something against your ear, but you’re not listening. You take a break from the music and try to memorize him under your tongue.

~!~

When you finish the song, you send it to your agent, and mail her the stone.

“Please throw this in the nearest trash compactor.” Your sticky-note memo says. “Thing’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

She doesn’t know what you’re talking about, probably. You’re not sure if she does it. But it’s better you don’t know where it is either; you might remember something you’d rather not.

And Karkat, he looks at you like you’ve built the world just for him, brick by agonizing brick. He looks at you when you laugh and tries to make you laugh harder. He looks at you like he wants to make everything up to you, whatever it was. He looks at you like he’s known you all his life. Maybe he has.

~!~

“I love you.” You tell him one night, murmuring it into his hair while he’s half-asleep and making himself a snack.

“Mmh, ‘love you too.” He says, without thinking about it. Yawning even. He must feel you shivering, because he turns his head. “Dave?”

“I just can’t believe how good I’ve got it sometimes.” You say, your voice cracking. It’s so fucking sappy it hurts, physically so, but he runs his fingers through your hair and down the side of your neck.

“I’m here.” He says. You hold him closer, breathe in his hair, and he kisses your cheek. “It’s okay. It’s real, shh, it’s okay.”

Later that day you cry like you’d only ever cried alone, but now it’s with him wrapped around you and shushing against your neck. It’s a relief, but the kind of relief that comes from disinfecting a wound, raw and too much all at once, and you don’t have a choice but to keep going with it.

“I love you.” He says, while you grip him tight, and you have no idea if he understands how much that means but you cry like a child while he pulls up your face to wipe away your tears, and the vulnerability could kill you,  _ he _ could kill you, and it’s the best thing you’ve ever had.

~!~

One night, as you watch a star fall from the sky, you wonder how it all came to this and you make a wish. 

~!~

This time, you believe.

 

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally finished the epilogue! It's been a hell of an adventure, more often than not emotionally and mentally taxing, but I'm super glad to have finished this.
> 
> So the fic’s ended! Here’s a thanks to some specific people who helped me along while writing!
> 
> Essynkardi, my moirail, who egged me on for pretty much the entirety of November and made sure to correct some of my typos when I couldn’t catch them.  
> CervinePrince/dualitat, my best friend, who suggested ideas to help keep me going even when I didn’t use them, and whose very presence kind of inspires me anyway.  
> Papaya/thedoublepp, who drew the illustration of Karkat that I love so much in that one chapter.  
> Rimaina, who spitballed ideas for the last few chapters with me, and helped me decide how to end chapter 22.  
> My god Set, because I prayed a lot during this fic.  
> Everyone in the comments and kudos, because seriously, without you I probably wouldn’t keep posting at all.  
> Everyone who listened to me scream, cry, bitch, and moan about every word in various servers, and continued to egg me on despite
> 
> And finally, everyone who read this far, because I’m glad to know that people are reading at all. You may not have written a comment or left a kudo, but watching that hit counter go up is good for my soul.
> 
> Thank you, everyone! Here’s looking forward to further stories!  
> ~Chess (twofoldAxiom)


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